let the wild rumpus start
by dress without sleeves
Summary: Sequel to "i'll eat you up, i love you so." Allison has the kanima, Stiles is a Baba Yaga, Peter is the King of Sass, and there's a pack of Alphas on the prowl in Beacon Hills. / "The kanima is for vengeance," Dream-Laura says, stringing wildflowers together into a chain. She snaps a dandelion off at the head. "But that's not what it's about." Stiles/Derek.
1. and they roared their terrible roars

**dws note: **um, so, this was NOT supposed to happen? "wild things" was definitely supposed to be a three-part series that is suddenly plotting out to be at least a five-part series and i CAN'T CONTROL THE SPREAD.

let the wild rumpus start

_and they roared their terrible roars_

When Stiles wakes up, it is to find Scott sitting at the edge of his bed, tugging at loose threads.

_Well, __**that's**__ ominous,_ Stiles thinks, trying to drag himself into consciousness. He's pretty sure it's Sunday. He's pretty sure that Scott has no right to be messing with his blankets and maybe potential existential crises this early on a _Sunday_.

"Dude," he says, keeping his eyes closed, "_why, _though?"

Scott breathes out half a laugh and pitches forward so that he's stretched out along Stiles, pulling the pillow out from under Stiles' head and tucking it under his chin.

"Allison has the kanima," he mutters.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, still not opening his eyes. "I was there. I saw."

"Do you think . . ." he clears his throat. "Do you think that means she's going to _become_ the kanima?"

Stiles sighs. He reaches out to blindly clutch at Scott's hair, attempting a pat. "Seeing that the kanimas—kanimi?—of recent history have been Jackson the Asshole and Gerard the Psychopath, I think that Allison has at least a fifty-percent chance of not going crazypants," he says in what he hopes is a reassuring voice. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Sure," says Scott, and Stiles feels movement as he gets off the bed. He hovers awkwardly at Stiles feet. "Oh and, um, I know about, err. The thing. Or I mean, I can guess. At it. At . . . the thing."

Stiles cracks open an eye. "The thing? What thing?"

Scott flushes red, looking the most uncomfortable that Stiles has ever seen him. "The, uh, the Derek thing?" he asks, wincing and focusing his gaze on the corner of Stiles' ceiling. "I can kind of, um. Smell it? On you?"

Stiles' other eye flies open and he stares at Scott. "Oh," he says dumbly. "_That_ thing."

"Do, uh," attempts Scott, "do you want to talk about it?"

"No," answers Stiles immediately, waving his hands frantically in front of his face as if he can physically shove the question away. He scoots so that he is sitting up, back against the headboard. "No, not even sort of. Not even a little bit, no. No."

Scott nods. He looks relieved as he tugs at the net of Stiles' nearby lacrosse stick. His expression is carefully nonchalant as he says, "But, um, so, dudes, though? That's new, right?"

And oh God, Stiles realizes, Scott wants to _talk about this_, Scott wants to have some sort of, like, heart-to-heart about feelings and how they are bros forever and how Stiles can put his penis wherever he wants to, so long as he's happy or whatever.

Scott looks up suddenly, the panic clear in his eyes as he says, "Wait, that _is_ new, right?" Stiles watches every moment of their friendship replay across Scott's face as his stupid potato of a best friend wonders if he's been breaking Stiles' heart for the last near-decade.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah. I mean. I still kind of want to taste Lydia's hair sometimes? So not that much has changed." He's only half-kidding.

The tension spools out of Scott's shoulders and he laughs, flopping back into Stiles' desk chair and kicking the bed with an easy familiarity that Stiles should have known better than to have been afraid to lose. "Trust Lydia to flavor it or something," he jokes, and then, "hey, wanna have pancakes?"

By which Scott clearly means "will you _make me_ pancakes?" and Stiles wants to tell him to fuck off, but really he doesn't. Really he wants to make pancakes and watch Scott be excited about them, like the fact that Stiles is a good cook is the biggest revelation he's had today.

"You suck," he says, not meaning it.

"So do you, apparently," replies Scott, and runs out of the room before Stiles can throw a pillow at him.

.x.

Derek spends the morning running. He likes the way it feels to be breathless. Swimming had done this for him, once upon a time, but now all swimming pools have _Kate Argent_ stamped on them, and the breathlessness he feels is not the same.

At lunchtime, he goes to Jackson's. It's not a conversation he wants to have, but he's supposed to be the adult here, so.

"What," says Jackson upon answering the door. "My parents are going to be home soon." He pauses. "Why do you smell weird?"

Derek brushes past him, walking inside. He can hear someone—Lydia, he decides upon taking a sniff—moving around in the kitchen, and follows the scent. He raises an eyebrow as he leans against the doorframe, watching her pour three perfectly even glasses of milk.

"I need to talk to you," Derek says as Jackson comes up behind him, smoothly ignoring the earlier question. "You're a werewolf now. There are responsibilities."

Jackson is wearing an unhappy face—does he have any others?—as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. He doesn't react when Lydia puts a glass in front of him. She drags one to the chair at his side and pushes the other into an empty seat. It takes Derek a moment to realize that it is for him.

He sits, but he doesn't take the milk, because he's not a four-year-old and because taking it feels oddly like commitment.

"I get it," Jackson mutters. He sounds like he's pouting. "Scott explained everything. Find an anchor, don't kill anybody, trust the instinct. What else is there?"

"The bite is a gift," Derek begins, and the sound that rips out of Jackson sounds like a scab being ripped off of an unready wound.

"Oh, sorry," says Jackson, half-hysterical, "I thought you just said that the thing that made me a _serial killer _was a gift."

"Jackson," Lydia murmurs, dropping her hand to his leg. He doesn't look at her, but he stiffens his jaw and doesn't say anything else. Lydia's fingers tighten on her glass of milk and she looks over at Derek, raising a prim eyebrow. "Are you here to offer him a place in your pack?" she asks, but her voice makes it clear that phrasing the words as a question is a courtesy. Her voice makes it clear that what's she's actually saying is _you are here to offer Jackson a place in your pack._

Derek frowns. "If he wants it," he says carefully. "If he's willing to accept the pack rules."

"Excellent," says Lydia, and ignores the look Jackson shoots her. "Drink your milk."

"I'm not—" Derek begins, but Lydia talks over him as she says, "_Drink_ your _milk."_

He brings the glass automatically to his lips and he thinks he sees Jackson smile, a little.

.x.

_**Sent Mail**_

_to: JEZEBEL_

_so i'm dating a dude now because i guess i like them and also their penises_

_**Inbox (1)**_

_from: JEZEBEL_

_bambi shut the fuck up are you serious_

_**Inbox (2)**_

_from: JEZEBEL_

… _is what someone who was surprised would say_

_**Inbox (3)**_

_from: JEZEBEL_

_but the fact that we met in a gay bar was kind of a give away. now tell mama j everything and i will know if you're making him sound hotter than he is_

_**Sent Mail**_

_to: JEZEBEL_

_he's 23, he favors scruff, his hotness is an offense to humanity and if there was any justice in the world there would be a tv show called "derek hale has a face" and it would air 24/7_

_**Sent Mail**_

_to: JEZEBEL_

_and before you ask wtf he is doing dating me remember that i have NO FUCKING IDEA_

_**Inbox (1)**_

_from: JEZEBEL_

_i'm sorry did you say derek hale? ARRESTED FOR MURDER derek hale?_

_**Sent Mail**_

_to: JEZEBEL_

… _he was exonerated?_

Fifteen minutes after he sends the text to Jezebel, Stiles' doorbell rings. He opens it with half a banana shoved into his mouth. The lady herself raises an eyebrow as she says, "Practicing?"

He chokes a little, and spits the banana out into the garden. "What are you _doing_ here?" Then he blinks, looking her over.

She's wearing pants and a light blue button-down, a bowtie hanging undone like arms on either side of her neck. She's in _loafers. _She's—Stiles is confused about his pronouns. "Why are you dressed like _that_?" he blurts without thinking.

She rolls her eyes. "I went to church this morning," she says, and pushes past him into the house like she owns it. "I didn't have anything else that was appropriate. It's laundry day."

"Oh," agrees Stiles faintly. "Okay then."

He follows her into the living room where she flops down on the couch, nodding at Scott—who is sitting cross-legged in his Dad's chair—and points the remote at the TV, shutting it off.

"You're the other baby from Jungle, right?" Jezebel asks, quirking an eyebrow. "The one getting all the free drinks?"

Scott looks pleased. "Hey, yeah," he says. "Stiles, did you hear that? I'm a memorable fake gay person!"

"Good on you," Stiles says dully. "Scott, Jezebel. Jezebel, Scott."

"Nice to meet you," Scott offers, stretching out to offer his hand. "I think I saw you at Lydia's party, right? You had on that blonde wig? It was nice. Though I mean, looking like a dude, that's cool too. I like your shirt."

Jezebel looks at Stiles, expression flabbergasted. "Is he for real?" she asks.

Stiles laughs, sinking down next to Jezebel on the couch. "Ladies and gentlemen, Scott McCall."

She makes a small, considering sound, and then focuses her eyes on Stiles in a way that makes him distinctly nervous. He has a feeling he's about to get yelled at.

"_Derek Hale_?" she says, with no segue whatsoever. "I mean _Jesus_, Bambi, are you _trying_ to get eaten by the big bad wolf?"

A choked sound stumbles out of Scott's mouth, and Stiles shrugs. "You're mixing your metaphors. And once you get to know him," he begins, but Jezebel holds up a hand, cutting him off. Her nails are painted bright pink. It's comforting, what with all the casual clothes.

"Not interested," she says flatly. "You like him, he's into it, whatever. Get some, honey. All I'll say is that if things get out of hand, go for the balls. With your _fingernails._ Got it?"

"Uuummm," says Stiles, as a bite of pancake falls out of Scott's shocked, open mouth.

"And I am going to lend you all of my 'Queer as Folk' DVDs, because _clearly_ you need them."

"I think—"

"You are not _thinking_ with the right organ, sweet cheeks," Jezebel says smoothly. "Though, hey. Why not. Give that overactive brain of yours a break." She (he? Stiles doesn't know the etiquette here) settles back against the cushions. "So, how far along are we? Who's touched what, with what?"

"Oh my _God_," says Scott.

.x.

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are waiting at the ice rink when he gets back. Isaac is draped over the hood of the Zamboni. Erica and Boyd are locked in a bout of Mortal Kombat that could be anyone's game. Derek shrugs his jacket off and leaves it in a heap on the floor. Boyd barely looks up from the game as he says, "Dude, pick that shit up. Rude."

He glances down at the jacket, surprised. On autopilot, he bends down and curls his fingers into the leather before tossing it onto the pile of clothes that has been gathering in the corner. They don't have closets or anything that resembles a dresser.

He is reminded, suddenly, dizzyingly, of Laura. She hated it when he made a mess. Their apartment in New York had been a study in neatly folded piles and a never-ending war on cockroaches.

"I spoke with Jackson today," Derek says, trying to bring the conversation back around to somewhere that doesn't conjure any ghosts. "We're bringing him into the pack."

Erica pauses the video game. She and Boyd exchange a glance, and Isaac sits up. "We are?" Isaac asks carefully.

"Don't you mean that _you_ are?" Erica adds. She looks annoyed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Thanks for asking if we wanted to adopt a douchebag little orphan. No dibs on babysitting the serial killer."

"Erica," Boyd scolds quietly.

"What?" she snaps. "He's an asshole. We _all think_ he's an asshole."

"He's one of us," Derek tells her, his voice brooking no argument. Her resistance surprises him. There is power in numbers, and Jackson—for all his issues—will be a strong addition to the team once he learns to master the shift. He's popular, wealthy, and well placed within the community. Bringing him into the pack is the obvious move.

Isn't it?

Erica unfolds her arms as she stands. "No, he's not," she says. "He's a werewolf. That doesn't make him one of _us._"

"_We're_ werewolves," Derek reminds her, raising himself to his full height. He lets his eyes flash a little red.

She curls back her lip. "That doesn't mean he gets automatic entrance!" she cries. "Anyone can get bitten! What, are we going to start cuddling with your uncle now just because we've all got the same dentist?"

"That's different," Derek snarls, getting into her space. Her eyes flash yellow, an automatic response to her Alpha, but she doesn't back down.

"Why? Because _you _don't like him?"

"Because he's a _murderer._"

"So is _Jackson!_"

Derek's teeth stretch out and he leans in, growling low in his throat. "_I _am the Alpha, and the decision is _made,_" he tells her, and he feels the beta in Erica snap to attention as it submits.

Her eyes are still yellow as she backs off, but her fists clench at her sides. "Whatever," she says, and shoves past him. "You want him in your pack, have him. But don't think for a _second_ that he's any brother of mine."

She walks out. Derek watches her go, her scent full of anger and resentment . . . is that . . . fear? He frowns.

Isaac and Boyd don't say anything, though Derek can feel the misery spilling out of Isaac and discomfort bunched around Boyd. He knows that there is something he should say here, a question he should ask, but instead he makes his words gruff as he mutters, "Any other objections?"

Isaac looks anxious. "She's just—"

Boyd cuts him off with a glare. Isaac sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

Derek files away the moment in his head, tells himself that he will get to the bottom of the silences later, but a part of him knows that there is no such thing as a bottom to silence.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. No one is dissenting any more, but the air still feels wrong, uncomfortable. He doesn't know what to say to make it better—if there even _is_ something to say that would make it better.

He lowers himself onto the couch and fiddles with his phone. He wants to text Erica. He wants to text Stiles. He wants Laura to tell him what to do.

_Hey, Lo,_ he thinks to himself, _I think I got peer-pressured into dating a minor and how do teenage girls work?_

Instead, he pretends to be absorbed in the blankness of his cell phone's screen. Isaac and Boyd sit slowly in front of the TV and resume the Mortal Kombat battle, subdued. After a few minutes, Isaac looks up and asks quietly, "What's that smell?"

_It's me,_ Derek thinks, _and it's Stiles, _but he shrugs instead of answering. He doesn't want to say Stiles' name aloud, afraid that reifying the way Stiles hands look when they are white-knuckled in his shirt collar will shatter the feeling.

"I must have rubbed against something in the woods," he mutters.

.x.

After dinner, Stiles heads over to the animal hospital. They close up around seven, but Stiles has it on good authority that Dr. Deaton always stays late doing paperwork and readying the office for the next day.

He knocks on the glass, hands shoved into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. It's starting to rain.

Dr. Deaton emerges from the back and smiles, giving Stiles a little wave as he comes over to unlock the door.

"So, I'm the Little Engine that Could," Stiles says in way of greeting as Dr. Deaton waves him in. "That's what the whole 'be the spark,' thing was about when you were talking about the Mountain Ash, isn't it?"

"Rowan," says Dr. Deaton, and Stiles does a double take.

"What?"

"It's the scientific name for Mountain Ash. Rowan."

"My middle name is Rowan."

"I know."

They look at each other for a moment. Dr. Deaton re-locks the door and drops the key into his pocket. He walks to the back of the waiting room and gestures over his shoulder for Stiles to follow him. They pass through the operating room into the back office, where Dr. Deaton pulls a drawer out of the filing cabinet. From underneath where the drawer was, he withdraws a green cloth ledger.

_Yelena _is written across the top in gold lettering.

Stiles' breath catches in his throat. "That's," he says, and Dr. Deaton nods.

"Your mother's," he says. "She gave it to me when she first realized that she was sick. In case she didn't have time to teach you."

Stiles feels his hands clench into fists. "Why are you just telling me this _now_?" he asks. "Why didn't you—she's been dead for _years_, she—this whole time, you've had a _piece of her_ and you didn't—?"

"What would I have said, Stiles?" Dr. Deaton asks, his voice soft. "You didn't know anything about this world. You were just a boy. If it were up to me you _still_ wouldn't know what you are, not for years."

Stiles tears his eyes from the ledger and meets those of Dr. Deaton. "And what _am I_?" he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can make them sound less desperate.

"A guide," Dr. Deaton says. "An advisor. You have power—not a lot, not as much as, say, a witch, but some. Out of necessity, you can . . . make things happen, as it were. You are the protector of those you are bound to, just as they protect and are bound to you."

Stiles frowns. "So I'm what, like Dumbledore or something?"

"Or something, anyway," Dr. Deaton agrees dryly. "For every family of born werewolves, there is a family of guides, of—"

"Baba Yagas," Stiles supplies. "That's what Peter said my mother called it."

"Yes," agrees Dr. Deaton. "All legends are founded in truth."

"So . . ." he shifts uncomfortably. "If my mother was Peter's, um, guide, does that—does that make me Derek's?"

He's not sure what he wants the answer to be.

Dr. Deaton pushes the green ledger toward him. "Yes, and no," he says. "I was Derek's mother's, on her father's side. Your mother was Peter's because of his wife. It follows that Derek could belong to either one of us. I haven't . . . as of yet, I haven't thought that any sort of official claim needed to be made."

He levels Stiles with a deliberate look, a look that says he knows exactly where Stiles' mouth has been. "Oh, um, no," Stiles agrees quickly. "No, nothing official, why would we need to make anything official? No." Dr. Deaton covers a smile with his hand, but don't think Stiles doesn't notice it. Why do adults find the agony of being young and wanting to get laid so hilarious?

A thought occurs to him. "What about Scott?" he asks. "He's not a born werewolf. Does he get a Baba Yaga?"

Dr. Deaton nods. "His will be the Baba Yaga of the pack he joins," he explains. "So, if he is part of Derek's pack . . ."

"Then I'm his Baba Yaga," Stiles says with a nod, and then catches himself. "Er—hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," agrees Dr. Deaton, but he sounds amused.

Stiles rubs his hand over his buzzed scalp. He wants to reach out and take the ledger for himself, but isn't sure he's ready to see his mother's neat handwriting. He's been staring at Russian characters for so long that he's forgotten what her pens had looked like when they curved the bell of a _g_. He shoves his hands into his pockets, takes them out again, puts them back.

"She wasn't," he hears himself say, and swallows. _What I thought she was_, he doesn't finish. _She wasn't what I thought she was_.

"She loved you," Dr. Deacon tells him gently, leaning forward. "Both of you."

Stiles doesn't meet his eyes. "Yeah," he says.

.x.

"Is there a reason," Peter asks when he appears in the doorway, "that you think it's all right to live with a bunch of teenagers at an ice rink? Are you fulfilling some _Boxcar Children _fantasy?"

Derek leaps to his feet, eyes ringing red and teeth extending. Peter holds up his hands, wrists loose. He's got on dark sunglasses that rest at the bottom of his nose so he can peer over them. "Easy, killer," he appeases, and tilts his head up, offering his neck. "See? Submission. Pack. Family. Kumbaya."

"You're just saying random shit," Derek growls. He doesn't advance. But he doesn't back off, either. "What do you want."

"Okay, first of all, they weren't random, and I'm hurt that you think so little of my social skills," Peter tells him, lowering his hands and pulling his sunglasses off his face. He folds them delicately before tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans. "And secondly, I come with a peace offering. I'm sorry about the whole 'Alpha' thing. _Not_ my finest performance, I admit. But we all do silly things when we've been in a near-comatose state for ten years, amirite?"

"What do you _want_," Derek repeats.

"To be part of your pack."

Derek's teeth recede a little. He keeps his eyes red. "Why," he asks carefully, "would I want a total _psycho_ like you in my pack?"

Peter looks hurt. "Okay, I am not a _total_ psycho. And _you're_ the one that slashed my neck open, but hey. We're all works in progress, so."

Derek growls.

"All right, all _right._ Jesus, you are _testy._ Is this what living with teenagers does to you? Because, if you want my advice, sticking to a strictly eighteen-and-up rule when picking betas might do a _lot _for your irritability problem." Before Derek can answer, or maybe just leap at him with his teeth bared, Peter goes on, "Look, we left our last conversation in a bad place. I feel awkward about it, I really do. You burned my family alive, I murdered your sister . . . it's an uncomfortable history. But we have bigger problems right now. I'm willing to let bygones be bygones."

Derek schools his expression, bringing his hands down to his sides and blunting his nails. He's not an idiot—he doesn't trust Peter, won't _ever _trust Peter, but there is something in the way that his uncle is standing. His stance looks relaxed, hips jut out and shoulders slumped, but there is tension gathered at his joints, a kind of nervous flicker to his fingers.

And—

He's family.

Derek doesn't like him, Derek doesn't _trust_ him, but he's family_. _There isn't anybody else _left_.

"What are our bigger problems?" he asks slowly, and Peter smiles grimly as he tosses piece of wood that smells like ashes onto the floor between them.

It has a triskele on it.

"Alphas," Peter says.

.x.

Stiles sits on his bed with his legs crossed, his mother's ledger balanced on one knee and his laptop on the other. As it turns out, learning Russian is actually _really, super_ _hard_.

"Dude, Google Translate, you _suck_," he grumbles. He snaps the laptop closed and flops back onto his pillows, legs still tucked up beneath him.

He closes his eyes. Dr. Deaton hadn't been able to help him with the translation, because Dr. Deacon is from Seattle, and apparently knowledge of Russian is not inherent to magical witch guides across the globe. Stiles' Mom must have had some serious language lessons planned for when he was old enough to learn them. But she's dead now, and all Stiles has of her is a job he doesn't understand and a book he can't read.

"Fuck Russia," he says aloud, and Derek answers, "History mostly has."

He sits up so quickly that he twists his neck. "Ahhhh! Fuck!" he cries, clutching at the nape. "Owowow _shit_ I hate that, fuck."

Derek grins a little, lowering himself carefully into Stiles' desk chair. They sit in silence for a while, neither of them looking at the other. Stiles chews on his lip. What is the protocol here? Are they boyfriends? Is he supposed to, like, kiss him hello, or invite him onto the bed, (or is that slutty?) or—

"Stop freaking out," Derek snaps irritably, and Stiles realizes that his heart is beating so fast that he could be the soundtrack to _Jaws_.

He frowns. "Than stop being all Tall Dark and Broody, you're making me _nervous_," he snaps back. "This wouldn't be so hard if you could just act like a normal human." Derek raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you know what I _mean,_" Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

He's quiet for a minute before saying slowly, almost cautiously, "It wouldn't be so hard if it weren't wildly inappropriate and borderline—"

"No," Stiles hears himself say, the word quick and panicky, "no, you said you would stop. Don't_. _Just—don't."

Derek blows a breath out of his nose. He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he just nods at the book on Stiles' lap. "Do you want me to try my hand at it?" he asks.

Stiles blinks at him, then down at the book. He had forgotten entirely that this was something that Derek could _do_. It's just hard to imagine Derek doing or reading anything that wasn't werewolf-related. The idea that he might have once pored over _literature, _for _fun_, is almost unbelievable.

"Um, if you don't mind?" he asks, but doesn't hand the book over. "It was—the book, it's . . . uh. It belonged to my mother."

He thinks he sees a softening in Derek's expression, even just a tiny one. "Did you go to see Deacon?" Derek asks, kicking his feet—with his shoes still on, the asshole—up onto Stiles' bed.

"Yeah. Baba Yaga status: confirmed."

"Mine?"

Stiles tries not to react to the way the word sounds spilling out of Derek's mouth, so casual, like he's not thinking about it, like the answer is obvious. He looks hard down at the bed and just says, "Not anyone else's, anyway."

Derek reaches forward and grabs Stiles' ankle, dragging him down to the foot of the bed. Stiles flails, yelping, and tries not to blush at Derek's dry raised eyebrow because _fuck _your smooth moves, man, Stiles is _new_ at this. Derek plucks the ledger off Stiles' lap and skims his eyes over it.

He frowns a little, focusing, and Stiles watches his face as he reads, eyes squinting every now and then, muscle working in his jaw. He has never seen him like this, never seen him _not_ paying attention, never seen him do anything that he looks like he enjoys.

He's not thinking clearly as he pulls the ledger away and pushes his face into Derek's line of vision, which is a bad plan because he wants to know what it says. It's like _really, vitally important_ that he finds out what his mother has written there. He's pretty sure that it's going to be a really ineffective lifestyle choice to just like, seduce Derek every time he gets his Reading Face on, but—

Derek laughs a little, quietly, and Stiles doesn't know why that sound is _heartbreaking_, but it is, it _hurts_ to see the way that Derek's eyes crinkle just a little when he laughs. He can't keep looking and he can't look away so he just stretches up and pushes his mouth against Derek's and swallows the sound.

"I thought you wanted me to translate," Derek says against his lips, and Stiles nods, "Yes, I do, yes."

Derek pulls away a little. In what seems like an unconscious gesture, he tugs on Stiles' ear. "I can't do both, moron."

And_ there's_ the sourwolf that Stiles knows and loves. He feels all the anxiety pour out of him. That weird moment, when Derek being happy was painful to see, passes. Stiles feels himself grin and remembers that Derek is a big huge chickenpants when it comes to all this. He puts his hands on Derek's thighs and feels the amusement humming through the werewolf's body, feels the other man's exasperation and impossible fondness, and kisses him again.

Derek hasn't shaved in a few days and the stubble burns, but Stiles forgets to think about it when Derek's hand comes up behind his neck and he pushes his tongue into Stiles' mouth. Stiles tightens his grip on Derek's thigh with his left hand and clutches at his collar with his right, acutely aware of how much space is between them from the neck down.

"Dude," he realizes after a minute, the feeling buzzing through his left hand, "you like me a _lot._"

Derek rolls his eyes. "No, I don't," he says. "You're just persistent."

Stiles raises the left hand and waves spirit fingers. "Baba Yaga's Magical Werewolf Emotion Reader," he sing-songs. "You have a big old wolf boner for one Stiles Stilinski."

"Oh my God," Derek intones flatly, pushing Stiles back, "get off. Give me the book."

Stiles laughs, and obeys, and neither of them talk about the way Stiles' hand stays soft on his knee as he reads.

.x.

Stiles falls asleep like that, his hand on Derek's knee and his chin dropping against his chest. Derek had come over initially in order to tell Stiles about the Alphas, but . . . but the Russian twist of Yelena Stilinski's handwriting had appealed, had reminded him of easier desires than the constant thrum of survival, and Stiles had been releasing waves of frustration and misery—frustration and misery that Derek could actually _do_ something about.

He sits perfectly still, closing his eyes. Stiles breathes softly, tipping slightly forward, and Derek listens to the sound of his heart beating at—finally—a normal rate.

"You'd like him," he says out loud to Laura. "You'd like him more than you ever liked me."

And that is the truth that Derek tries not to think about: that Laura had loved him, had guarded him, had stayed by him, but they were bound together because of the fire. In a world where Derek was not a by-proxy murderer, she would have seen him on holidays and teased him about girls and never taken a step closer than that because she would have had no reason to.

Derek had loved literature and swimming and not hanging out with anybody that didn't have elongated canines; Laura had loved concerts and the rush of driving fast with the top down, the press of crowds and the heat of the spotlight. Laura had watched reality television with rabidity and passion; she had read four pages of _War and Peace _before throwing it at him with an emphatic, "oh my _God,_ just, _no._"

But Stiles, Derek thinks with an almost desperate surety, _Stiles_ she would have wanted to stick around for.

Stiles makes a sound like a question as Derek shakes his head, extricating himself gently. He pushes Stiles until the kid is lying face-up on his back.

"You goin'?" Stiles mumbles, not opening his eyes. "'Cause we could make out more. I'm awake."

"You're really not," Derek tells him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Stiles cracks an eye. "Yeah?" he asks. "Will you come in through the front door like a normal person?"

"No," says Derek.

Stiles shrugs, sliding sleepily beneath the blankets. "Okay," he murmurs, agreeably enough. "I'll leave a reading light on."

Derek slips out of the window.

.x.

_interlude_

Allison sits on the foot of her bed, legs crossed. Scott hasn't called in the day since the showdown in her basement, and she's almost prepared to be glad of it.

There is a time and a place written in breath and fingers on her car window, but she's been wiping them away for days now and she can't tell anymore when they're new. She has her bedroom window locked. Scott looks perfect when he smiles but Allison has to be strong, stronger, _strongest. _Allison has to be better than the way her stomach flips when he kisses her and better than the way her teeth ache when she thinks of him alone in the woods, waiting.

Her hands are shaking and she reaches out instinctively to touch the crossbow at her side. Her mother is dead and Aunt Kate is dead. Allison is the only one left, and women are leaders, and the world is full of shadows that do not have Scott's careful hands.

Downstairs, her father moves around in the kitchen. He thinks she doesn't know that he spent the afternoon breaking glass against the fence outside. He thinks she doesn't know that there is a knife with her mother's blood on it in the second drawer of his dresser. He thinks she doesn't know that these things are _her fault._

Allison's grandfather hunches on her floor, tail flicking out behind him, tongue long and slick as he hisses. He hasn't changed back from kanima form, stalking around instead with eyes that alternate black and gold and dripping venom. There are rabbits in the backyard that can do no more than twitch.

"We hunt those that hunt us," Allison reminds herself. _And make no mistake_, a voice whispers that sounds like her mother, like her aunt, like herself: _make no mistake, Allison. There __**are**__ monsters that hunt us_. Scott McCall has a jaw that goes uneven when he sees her, but he is not the rule.

_There will be blood,_ her grandfather reminds her, nudging up against her foot with pointed and careless teeth. _You promised._

She meets his reptilian eyes and doesn't let herself look away.


	2. and they gnashed their terrible teeth

let the wild rumpus start

_and they gnashed their terrible teeth_

_interlude_

She shouldn't be here. She knows this house, knows the crackle of dead leaves beneath her feet, knows the dresser in the middle of the abandoned room. She does not belong here, should never have come.

She steels herself, and waits.

WHY ARE YOU HERE, shouts a voice from the dresser, and she startles, turning to look. The door rattles. She reaches a hand out and hovers over the knob, afraid to turn it, afraid not to know. WHY ARE YOU HERE?

"I don't know," she says, and "who are you?" and "where am I?"

_The Hale house_, her mind supplies, but that's not really the question that she's asking.

GET OUT, snarls the voice, wrathful, and the armoire rattles like a haunted basement. Smoke pours out of the dresser and she can smell flesh burning. The air tastes acrid and she chokes on it as the voice shouts like a bitter fire alarm: GET OUT GET OUT GET—

Lydia wakes.

.x.

The first thing that Stiles does when he wakes up is remember that his Dad doesn't work today. The second this is to realize that the house smells like bacon.

He's out of bed in an instant, taking the stairs by twos.

"I hope that's all for me," he announces loudly as he enters the kitchen, "because you _know_ what the doctor said about—"

He skids to a stop.

"Oh," he says, blinking. "Uh, hey? You guys? Who are here? In my house? At breakfast?"

Isaac shoots a grin at him that looks . . . genuine, and not at all psychotic, which might be a brand-new expression for him. He, Erica, and Boyd are crowded around the kitchen table and Stiles' Dad is sitting at the other end like this is a totally normal thing to be happening, like Stiles has surprise attack werewolf play-dates every weekend.

"Surprise," says Erica, grinning in the only way she knows how (like her teeth are daggers). "We came to take you out for breakfast."

"You . . . did?" Stiles asks warily, frowning. ". . . On purpose?"

"Well, Erica did," Boyd amends.

"Whatever, we're here, and you're coming," Erica says, speaking over whatever reply Boyd had been formulating. "We'll get McCall on the way. I know this great diner just outside Beacon Hills. They have the _best_ sausage."

Stiles looks at his Dad, but the Sheriff just shrugs his shoulders. "Go ahead, son," he says, and the words are just this side of too eager. Stiles narrows his eyes and snakes the plate of bacon out from under his father's poised fork.

"Fine," he says, "but I'm eating these. And _I'll_ _know _if you make more."

His Dad looks at him balefully. "I gave you _life_," he mutters, so Stiles takes pity and leaves him a single strip of bacon.

"Thanks for the DNA, big guy," he says.

He doesn't bother changing his t-shirt, but he slings on a fresh-ish pair of jeans and jams his feet into a pair of flip-flops. He thinks briefly that this is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to him, but then he remembers _his whole fucking life_ and realizes that no, it's really, _really _not.

Derek's pack had come over on Isaac's motorbike, so they pile into Stiles' car. Erica tries to wheedle her way into the drivers' seat, but he's seen her behind the wheel of a vehicle, and does _not_ trust her with his baby. So she rides shotgun and Isaac rides bitch, though there's room by the window. Boyd's ridiculously long legs press up against the back of Stiles' seat.

When they pull up to Scott's house, Erica is the only one who goes in.

"Are we going to get Jackson next?" Stiles asks as he watches Ms. McCall open the door and usher Erica inside.

He sees Isaac and Boyd exchange glances in the rearview mirror. "Definitely not," says Boyd.

Isaac's voice is slightly panicked as he adds, "Don't bring up Jackson in front of Erica."

"Why not?"

"Basically, she wants to curb stomp his face," Boyd explains in a voice way more neutral than Stiles is comfortable with, given the subject matter.

"Oh," says Stiles. "That's, uh. Oddly specific, thank you."

Boyd shrugs.

"Erica has some reservations about bringing Jackson into the pack," Isaac adds, more diplomatically. "Though she was fine when we brought you and your Girl Friday in, so, whatever."

Isaac is looking down at his nails as he speaks, blunting and sharpening his nails, and only looks up when he realizes nobody is responding. Stiles and Boyd are both staring at him. He stiffens.

"I like old movies, okay," he snaps.

"Yeah, like, the super _girly_ ones," Stiles laughs incredulously. "My _Mom_ loved His Girl Friday. Do you have a crush on Carey Grant, too?"

Isaac, to Stiles complete surprise, just shrugs. "The man had a jaw you could slice pizza with," he muses.

"Gaaaaaaay," drawls Erica, appearing suddenly at the door. She kicks her feet up onto Stiles' dashboard and ignores his pointed cough. "Scott's coming. Are we talking about Danny? I love talking about Danny."

Isaac rolls his eyes. He burrows his shoulders into the space between the driver and passenger seats and relaxes his elbows against the armrest in the middle. "Erica has a big, sad crush on Danny," he says.

"I want to lick his face. Like, all over it," agrees Erica.

"I thought you hated Danny," Stiles says, frowning. Is this conversation happening? "From when we Danny-napped him."

Erica waves her hands on front of her face. "Oh, _that_," she says.

"That's how Erica shows she cares," says Boyd dryly.

"That's not true," Erica argues, twisting around and gripping the headrest of her seat, glaring at Boyd. "What about that time I made everybody Campbell's on Isaac's birthday and didn't totally whoop his ass at video games?"

"She microwaved the Campbell's," Isaac murmurs under his breath to Stiles.

"Did you or did you not feast on soup?" Erica asks darkly, and Boyd holds up both his hands in surrender.

Scott knocks on Stiles' window. He's grinning, his hair mussed and wet from a recent shower. Stiles rolls down the window and says, "I guess we're breakfasting? Erica knows a diner. This is a thing we do now. Because you're pack."

"Because you're _both_ pack," Erica says sharply, twisting back around as Scott goes around the back of the Jeep to climb in next to Isaac. Erica clenches and unclenches her fists. "You're _both_ pack, got it?"

"Uh," says Stiles, and his instinct is to make some sort of a joke—'why am I always the last one to know these things?'—but she is looking at him like she's mad and like she's . . . scared, maybe? So he tosses her a grin. "Yeah. Got it. Cool."

She relaxes against the seat a little. "Don't think this means you automatically get Campbell's," she says, and Stiles starts the car.

.x.

It occurs to Derek that he should talk to Peter, but he has no way of contacting him. Which is pretty typical, he thinks; Peter would like having that measure of control. He remembers even when he was a kid, Peter was always making sure the right dinner forks were out and the napkins were on the correct side of the plate.

There's a text message on his phone. It's from Erica.

_**Inbox (1)**_

_from: ERICA_

_went to bfast with mccall and stilinski 221 oak st ps. jackson still sucks_

He toys with the phone, flipping it open and closed. He puts it on his side table and rolls to the ground, bending his elbows into a push-up. He likes the way it makes his muscles burn. He likes the way he feels afterward, sweat a light sheen on his back, the breeze cool where his skin is wet.

He closes his eyes until there is nothing, nothing but the burn in his arms and the smell of last night's take-out.

It occurs to him, suddenly and absurdly, that he lives in an ice skating rink.

His phone buzzes.

_**Inbox (2)**_

_from: ISAAC_

_come to bfast_

He frowns. Erica's message hadn't worried him; she was getting better at occasionally checking in. But Isaac's does, with its lack of anything beside a plaintive demand. He dials.

"We're going to order without you if you don't pick up the pace, boss," says Boyd, his voice slow like Laura's had been when she'd gone through her _y'all_ phase that first month in Arkansas.

"What's wrong?" he asks, already slipping into his coat. His arms are sticky from sweat but he doesn't have time to shower, if his pack is calling. Maybe there's some kind of disagreement, maybe they went to do recon on some new threats and didn't tell him (like idiots), maybe . . .

"What's _wrong_ is that we've been sitting here for fifteen minutes and if I have to listen to Erica and Scott talk about _Spy Kids_ like it's an actual trilogy for one more second, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions."

Derek blinks.

"What?"

There's a soft sigh on the other end of the phone. He can hear Boyd getting up from the table and walking a few paces away. "Derek," he says softly, "we're having _breakfast. _You should come, because it's a pack breakfast. And correct me if I'm wrong, but as Alpha I'm pretty sure you're standard issue Pack Master."

"It sounds like you have the situation under control," Derek points out, because his brain is kind of puttering out around the edges. He realizes that he is casting his glance around for Dream-Laura, wanting her to say something dry and to-the-point, something like _ohmy_god_ what even is your damage, little bro_ so that he can get his feet back into reality.

Boyd laughs a little. It sounds faintly sympathetic. "Yeah," he agrees, "because the situation is _breakfast. _I've been doing it pretty regularly since I was a kid. Are you coming or not?"

"Okay," Derek hears himself say. "I have to shower."

"Fine," agrees Boyd. "I'll order you something, cause I can't wait that long. My stomach is like growling out an opera over here."

Derek hangs up the phone. He stares at it for a minute before shrugging his jacket off again and going out back for the hose.

.x.

"So, is he coming?" Erica asks without looking up from her menu. "Because I'm hungry and I'm not waiting anymore. I am maxed out on the manners meter."

Boyd grins and shrugs. "Yeah, he's coming. He has to clean himself off."

Isaac wrinkles his nose. "I hate using the hose," he says with a sigh, tugging at one of his curls.

Stiles has been sitting quietly, trying not to freak out because Derek is coming and they are with his pack and he doesn't know how much anybody knows and also _Derek is coming._ Is he supposed to act like—and also he doesn't even know what they are technically calling—and also seriously how much does everybody know, is this a thing werewolves talk about, oh my god is Stiles like pack _mom_ now, is that the thing with breakfast?!

"I'm not anybody's mom," he hears himself blurt, and everybody stares at him.

"Way to keep your legs crossed there, big guy," says Isaac after a good thirty seconds of silence. "Hold out for something special."

Stiles drops his head to the table. "That's not what I—"

"What Stiles is trying to say," begins Scott, but Stiles cuts him off because _no no no _he absolutely does _not_ want Scott "I Think You Mean Bestiality" McCall saying anything out loud about Stiles' relationship to anyone, ever: "What Stiles is trying to say is that, uh, Isaac could maybe move in with me, if he wanted. I'd have to talk to my dad. But I'm pretty sure the idea of a minor living at an ice rink and showering with a hose is enough to convince him to let you into the guest room."

The silence that descends is complete, and then Stiles realizes what he's just said, and now he wishes he'd just let Scott say whatever horrifying thing he was going to say because at least then there wouldn't be _this._

Isaac's eyes are wide and his jaw kind of slack, staring at Stiles like he doesn't recognize him. Even Erica's face has dropped some its usual sass to display just a hint of genuine surprise. And then Boyd clears his throat and says—God bless Boyd—"_how_ is that what you were trying to say with 'I'm not anybody's mom'?"

"Nobody should have to shower with a hose?" Stiles asks weakly, as if that at all answers the question.

Isaac is still staring as the door swings open with a merry jingle and Derek stormclouds in, his face a picture of sour wolfiness, like pack breakfast is the worst thing that's ever happened to him. Stiles feels a flutter of affection because he'd bet his life that if he could just get a hand on Derek he'd been able to feel the fact that this is a lie and he's really a secret cuddler or something.

"No," says Isaac quietly, urgently as Derek approaches. Stiles looks at him. "Thanks. But I can't." Derek slides into the booth next to Stiles and Isaac cuts his eyes over to him.

Stiles rolls his mouth in, and nods. And kind of bumps his foot under the table to nudge against Isaac's so that he can feel the way Isaac leans towards Derek, loyalty humming under every breath.

He pulls his foot away. Derek's knee is a breath from his own and Stiles frowns at it, widening his legs just enough that they bump together with the werewolf's, who raises an eyebrow at him and glances down at their connected bodies with a kind of amused eye roll.

Stiles tries to communicate _WHAT DO WE TELL THEM?!_ silently and without drawing attention, but then Erica says, "Dude, Batman, what's with your heart rate?"

"I just really love breakfast," Stiles squeaks, and Scott just laughs and laughs, like an asshole.

.x.

Derek can hear Stiles' heart pounding in his chest and he frowns at it, like that will be enough to soften the sound that is drowning out conversation. He curls his fingers around the back of Stiles' neck and says flatly, "Stiles. Calm down."

And he—

does?

Stiles' heart just . . . slows down, and he relaxes back into where Derek is gripping him. Derek frowns at him again and then looks up to find Erica's chin perched on her hand as she watches them, grinning.

"Awww," she says.

"Shut up," Stiles answers, automatic. He shakes Derek off. "It's not my fault he has freaky Alpha powers."

"He's not your Alpha," Erica points out, and Stiles says—thoughtlessly, _Jesus_, like he's not even _thinking_ about it, "yes he is."

Derek's hand drops to his side and he just stares down hard at the table as the waitress comes, divvying out their food. Boyd ordered him bacon and eggs. And everyone is talking and laughing, but all Derek can think about is the way Stiles had said _yes he is_, like it wasn't a question, like the answer was obvious.

He half-listens to the conversation around him: Scott is repeatedly trying to defend his choice to put peanut butter on his pancakes while Erica and Isaac make faces and try to fling syrup at him; Boyd has his arms stretched out along the back of the booth, one across Erica's shoulders and one across Isaac's as he cuts off every syrup-flinging attempt with a swift grip of the neck; and Stiles hands hurtle around in the air as he says, "I disapprove of what Scott puts on his on his pancakes, but this is _America_ and I will defend to the death his right to do it."

Isaac rolls his eyes. "Okay, _Voltaire_," he says, and Stiles replies, "Not actually Voltaire. It was—"

"Missing the _point_, Stilinski."

Natalie used to do that, Derek doesn't say, reaching across the table for syrup. She used to put peanut butter on everything. Derek can remember her pulling out a little travel-sized jar on her ninth birthday and dipping her fork in before every bite of salad.

Instead, he says, almost idly, "Scott can put whatever he wants to on his pancakes," and Erica and Isaac fall quiet with just a few grumbles.

Scott looks over at him with a grin so big it makes his jaw uneven and he says, "Thanks, dude," before shoving a too-big bite into his mouth.

Derek grunts his 'you're welcome.' He feels Stiles lean against him until they are pressed together from ankle to shoulder and the thought makes him nervous, that Stiles might know what Derek is feeling when _Derek_ doesn't even know what Derek is feeling, but the kid doesn't say anything, just takes a long and gurgling sip of his orange juice.

"This was Erica's idea, so she's paying, right?" Scott asks when the bill comes. He hears Erica kick out under the table and Stiles yelps.

"That was _me!_"

Erica shrugs. "Same difference."

"Excuse me, I am my own man," says Stiles, and Scott says supportively, "Yeah."

Derek rolls his eyes, and shoves his credit card into the black foldout for the bill while they aren't paying attention. The waiter smiles at him and whisks it away, swinging his hips as he goes, which is a thing that Derek never would have noticed, before.

"Uh," says Boyd, pulling his arms off the back of the booth chair and leaning in. "Are you sure you can afford-?"

"Life insurance," Derek says flatly, not looking at anybody. When Boyd just keeps looking at him, he elaborates, "Boyd. I own a _Camaro. _I can afford breakfast."

"OhmyGod," breathes Stiles, tuning in suddenly to the conversation, "are you a _secret millionaire?!_"

He blinks. "No," he says.

"But the Camaro," argues Stiles, "and that really nice leather jacket that you _definitely _didn't get from Macy's."

Derek frowns at him. "I'm not a secret millionaire," he says again. He's pretty sure this conversation is getting away from him.

"So . . . you _are_ living at the ice rink because of near-destitution?"

Derek sighs as the waiter comes back with the bill and he signs his name to it, leaving a generous tip. Laura always had this thing about being nice to servers, probably as a direct result of her years spent waitressing and bartending to keep them with a roof over their heads.

"I'm not destitute," he says, hoping at will be it. He shoves the credit card back into his wallet and then into his jeans.

"Well," says Isaac as they make their way into the parking lot, "_I_ definitely am. My Dad left me, like . . . a potted plant when he died. Oh, and the funeral home, which, cool Dad, what am I supposed to do with _that_?"

"You could run it?" Scott asks. "I'll help out. I'm pretty awesome with dead people."

"In fact you're not," says Stiles.

"_I_ could help out," Erica puts in. "Me and Boyd would make _great_ funeral directors. I look awesome in black."

Boyd raises an eyebrow. "And, what, I _am_ black?" he asks.

Erica punches him, rolling her eyes. "Yes, because I'm a racist asshole."

But Derek is frowning. He'd forgotten that Isaac's father had left him the funeral home. He'd forgotten that Isaac's father had left Isaac the _house._ It's on the market, technically, but Isaac hasn't been in a hurry to sell and he's pretty sure that there isn't even a real estate agent on the job.

Derek's not particularly good with dead people, but Isaac knows how to work the backhoe and Derek's all right enough at numbers.

"Who's been in charge of the burials since your dad died?" Derek asks.

Isaac shrugs. "They've been outsourcing, I think. The next town over has this place that my Dad used to talk trash about all the time. Some family company. Douchebags and Sons, he called it."

Scott and Erica laugh. Boyd and Stiles don't.

Derek hums thoughtfully, then nods at the car. "All right. In the car. We have training." Erica, Isaac and Boyd all follow him instinctively to the Camaro; Scott and Stiles hop into Stiles' Jeep and idle while Derek pulls out of his parking space.

"So is Stiles like, Pack Mom now?" Erica asks as Derek pulls out into the street. "Should I tell him that I prefer my sandwiches with their crusts cut off?"

Derek's grip tightens on the wheel. "No," he says tonelessly. "We're not—Stiles isn't . . ."

He trails off. He does not want to have this conversation, does not want to put a name to the way Stiles' knuckles go white when they tangle in his collar, but he can hear Stiles' voice in his head: _you can't act like you don't _want this_ anymore._

Derek sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "It's complicated."

"Wow," says Isaac. "You're like a poet, dude."

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" asks Erica, and Boyd says, "No. You are not a summer's day. You are Stiles."

He sighs. "It's _complicated_," he says again, through gritted teeth, but what he means is: _I tried. _What he means is: _It wouldn't go away. _What he means is: _I have _no idea_ what I'm doing._

Erica kicks her feet up on his dashboard, though he's told her a thousand times not to. "Whatever," she says. "I like Stiles," and turns on the radio.

.x.

When they pull up to the Hale house, Jackson's Porsche is already parked there. Stiles and Scott exchange glances because, "dude, Erica is going to _shit_ herself."

"Maybe I should just drop you off and come back later," suggest Stiles, but Scott reaches across and shuts off the Jeep, palming the keys as he does.

"And leave me here alone? No way, dude. I'm not suicidal."

Stiles sighs, resigned, and they both get out of car. He can hear shouting from inside the house, but Lydia is sitting on the front steps with her chin in her legs crossed at the knee and a Tootsie Pop between her fingers.

She raises an eyebrow in greeting as they approach. "It was getting super loud in there," she says with a suck of her lollipop. "I have delicate ear drums."

Scott sighs, tugging at his ear. "Should I go in?" he asks, and Lydia exhales so perfectly that Stiles thinks her breath practically spells out _do I look like I give a shit?_

"Your pack, not mine," she tells him, and shrugs.

Scott moans a little and starts inside, pausing when he realizes that Stiles isn't behind him. "Dude!"

"Hey, you're the one with magical fast healing," Stiles points out. "How much help am I going to be, really?"

Scott makes a face before shouldering open the door and dropping to his hands and knees as his claws come out. Lydia makes a face. "Rude," she says.

Stiles takes a seat next to her, tugging idly at a hangnail on his thumb. He's not sure what to say. Lydia reaches into her pocket and pulls out an extra lollipop, offering it to him. He takes it with a grin. "So, uh," he says, "I was thinking that maybe we could—"

"Jesus, Stiles, the candy was not a _commitment_," Lydia snaps, and holds open her palm like she wants it back.

"No!" he cries hurriedly, and shoves it into his mouth, wrapper and all. Lydia makes a face. "No," he says again, popping the candy back out and wiping it on his jeans, "I mean—I'm not . . . I'm not trying to ask you out. Right now. Or, I mean, ever. Not that—who can tell in the future if I—I'm not trying to say that you're not, you know, perfect in every way, because you are, obviously, I just meant that for the foreseeable _now_ I am not going to, er, try to like, put our faces together. In a sexy way. Put our faces together in a sexy—"

"Okay," interrupts Lydia, "you can shut up now."

"Oh thank God."

They sit quietly and suck on their lollipops. Stiles says, "So . . . how is Jackson?"

Lydia leans back on her elbows, looking at the roof of the porch and making a face that says she disapproves. "Well, he killed about twenty people in the span of roughly a month," she reminds him. "So he's doing about as well as he can, under the circumstances."

Stiles glances at her. She eats a lollipop the way most people smoke cigarettes, long and slow like it's burning as it goes down. He's apparently into dudes for now, but he still kind of wants to suck on her hair, and that's just Lydia for you.

"And, uh," he tries, aborts, then tries again, "and, uh, how are _you_?"

She cuts her eyes over at him, a glare at first but then soft around the corners. "Hmm," she hums, and looks back up at the ceiling, red hair dripping over her shoulder to brush against the floorboards. He thinks she might be about to answer him, to answer him _honestly,_ but then she just says, "I haven't heard from Allison."

Stiles frowns. Bites back disappointment. "Well, you know," he says, shrugging, "being the master of the kanima might be a little time-consuming."

"Sure," agrees Lydia, "but I was possessed and mind-raped by a dead werewolf and she's supposed to be my best friend."

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. He waits in silence until Lydia sighs, and rolls her eyes, and says, "The shouting has stopped."

"Do you think that means that everyone is dead?"

Lydia shrugs. "That, or Scott's got them all in a big puppy pile somewhere crying about feelings."

She gets to her feet and offers Stiles a hand. He takes it, amazed that there is no electricity or spark when their fingers touch—is it because of Derek, or is it because there never was any in the first place?—and follows her into the house.

It's true, the yelling has stopped, but when they get down to the cellar it's not a puppy pile of feelings, either. Erica is standing by the apparatus where Kate Argent had strung up Derek, her arms folded over her chest and her face twisted into a dark scowl. Jackson is leaning against a beam and looking nonchalant, but he's betrayed by the rigid tension holding his body up. Boyd and Isaac are both off to the side, apparently trying to stay out of it, and Scott is in the middle of everything, looking like Mom and Dad are fighting at the dinner table.

Derek has his hands clenched at his sides, and his eyes are a brighter red than Stiles has ever seen them.

"So, uh," says Stiles into the silence, "how's training going?"

Lydia makes a soft noise of what's probably annoyance and goes to stand beside Jackson, linking her hand with his. At first Stiles thinks that Jackson is going to shake her off—_I don't need you_—but instead he leans just a little into her side.

"If you don't want me here," he pushes out through gritted teeth, "I don't want to _be here. _I only came because Alpha McDouchebag told me to."

"Great bonding skills, Jackson," Lydia hisses, and he rolls his eyes at her. "Look. Derek made Jackson a werewolf, so he's part of the pack whether anyone likes it or not. Can we get over it, please? We have bigger problems."

"Like what," Derek asks, without question marks and without turning his head.

"Um, like your crazy uncle being magically alive-again? Like Allison controlling her batshit nutso grandfather as a murderous, paralytic lizard?"

Erica growls. Her claws are out, Stiles notices. There are pinpricks of blood on her arms where she's crossed them. "I'll work with Jackson to kill Peter and Allison," she says, "but he's _not. pack._"

"We're not killing Allison," Scott cries as Derek says, "Yes. He _is._" There's a pause. Derek glances at Scott, sighs, and adds, "And we're not killing Allison."

Erica purses her lips. "Maybe he's your Beta," she tells Derek, "but he's _not _my pack mate." Her hands unfold and she clenches them at her side. "And, and after," she swallows, "after we've taken care of Peter and the kanima, it's me or him."

They all stare at her. She sticks out her chin. "I'm serious," she says.

Lydia frowns. "What is your _damage_?" she asks.

"Sorry, who invited the human?" Erica spits back.

"Guys," Scott whines. Both girls glare at him. "Guys, can't we just—"

"If you say 'all get along,' I swear to God, McCall," Erica snarls. "Look. I've said what I needed to say. If we need him to kill Peter and take care of Gerard the Psychopath, fine. But after that, either he goes, or I go. And keep in mind that _he's_ a douchebag and _I'm_ the only one in the _entire pack_ that has a _uterus._"

She shoulders past Derek and doesn't look at Stiles as she leaves, her hands still bunched into fists.

"Is it her time of the month?" Jackson asks out loud, and Lydia punches him in the shoulder hard enough for him to wince.

"Don't be an asshole," she snaps, and then frowns at where her nail polish cracked when she hit him.

Stiles looks at Derek, whose face is blank. Stiles wants to walk over and press a hand to whatever skin he can find, but he has a feeling the advance wouldn't be welcome.

Derek growls, low in his throat, and says, "Everybody go home. Be here early tomorrow for training."

"I thought," begins Jackson, but Derek shoots him a glare so lethal that even _Stiles_ winces.

Scott sighs, looking miserable. Stiles knows he's Scott's ride home, but he doesn't want to go; he thinks maybe he has license to stay, now. _Get a ride with Jackson,_ he orders quietly. _Get a ride with Jackson. Get a ride with Jackson._

He's looking at Derek and not looking away. _Get a ride with Jackson._

"C'mon, McCall," Jackson says, turning towards the door and not letting go of Lydia's hand, "I've got some of your lacrosse shit still at my house."

Scott glances at Stiles. "Is that—" he begins, but Stiles waves him away, trying not to break into a grin.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," he assures him hurriedly, maybe too hurriedly if Boyd's amused glance is any indication. "I mean, whatever, dude."

"Let's go for a run, Isaac," Boyd adds. "We'll pick up your bike from Stiles'."

"We can't get just ride with—" Isaac begins, but Derek bites out, "_Go_," and they both do.

And then it's just Derek and Stiles, staring at one another in the cellar of the house his family died in, and Stiles is pretty sure it's wrong and gross to want to kiss him in a place like this, but he does.

"Are you," he begins and then nothing else, because Derek demands, "Come_ here,_" and Stiles does.

Stiles does, but slowly, reaching out to curl his fingers in the pockets of Derek's jacket, bringing their faces close and then waiting. He's trying not to touch Derek's skin because he knows that it will give everything away, and it occurs to him that maybe the whole touch thing is kind of an invasion of privacy, and also he's not sure he _wants_ to know what's going through the werewolf's head. Not with an expression like that.

"Did you mean it," Derek says, and his eyes are still red.

"Mean what? Use some clauses, dude."

Derek rolls his eyes. The red fades a little. "At the diner."

Stiles blinks. "Uh . . . if you mean that thing I said about fighting to the death for Scott's right to put peanut butter on his pancakes, then, no. I'm not dying for Scott's weird emotions concerning spreads."

Derek growls, shuffling them both up against the nearest wall. His head dips slightly but not _enough, _his breath on Stiles' lips but his mouth still separate. Stiles huffs. "Dude, I am not even _trying_ to be stupid right now, I genuinely don't know what you're—"

"_Stiles_," Derek snarls. "Did you mean what you said about _me._"

Stiles frowns. Thinks. "About . . . ?"

And then he remembers.

He flushes, looking down suddenly, flustered. He's still not touching Derek's skin, can't tell if the towering, heavy-breathing wolf thing is anger or—or, something else, and he wants to reach out and flick his fingers up under Derek's shirt but no, bad Stiles, respect your werewolf's privacy.

"Um," he says, "I mean, yes? At the time? But if that's—I mean, if you don't want—"

Derek cuts him off by slamming their mouths together, and okay, that's Stiles' cue that touching is okay, so he shakes his hands out of Derek's pockets and threads them hastily under the lip of his t-shirt, finding warm skin. He thinks Derek might be laughing but he can't tell, because he's dizzy and because all he can feel is the flood of—

. . . the flood of affection, and protection, and this fierce kind of want that Stiles had _not_ been prepared for, had not expected, isn't sure that he can even entirely _process._

"Okay," he says as Derek pulls away, "okay, yes, I definitely meant it, oh Alpha my Alpha, why don't we do this _all the time,_ why don't we—"

"Stiles," grins Derek, pulling back farther, which, _no_, clearly he is not picking up what Stiles is throwing down here, "shut up."

"Make me?" Stiles asks hopefully, and Derek casts him a glance that says he's not falling for it. He's getting farther away, readjusting his jacket, and Stiles frowns. "Dude," he says, "you gotta stop doing that."

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. "Doing what?"

"Being the worst cock block in the history of _ever._"

Derek pauses, his jaw going kind of slack for a minute before tightening into a poker face. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says. "I kissed you, didn't I?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "What, do you want a cookie?" he asks sardonically, and gets close again, grabbing onto the first piece of Derek that he can get—his wrist where it is bent to pull up his jacket's zipper. "You know, I'd have serious insecurities about this if I didn't happen to know on super magic guide authority that you want to hunt rabbits and leave them on my porch as offerings."

"That I want to _what_?" Derek asks, and Stiles takes the opportunity to kiss him again, his open mouth practically an _invitation_, Stiles' tongue licking up against his teeth. And Stiles can _feel_ Derek responding, not just in his hands but in the way his mouth opens up, the way it presses back, the way he feels an arm loop around his lower back and pull him closer. In the hand that is wrapped tight around Derek's wrist he can feel the way Derek's shoulders are trying to curl around Stiles', like he wants to swallow him up forever.

Derek pulls away. "_Duuuude_," whines Stiles, "come _on._"

"I'm not stopping forever, just, hold on for a second," Derek tells him dryly, rolling his eyes _so hard,_ seriously. Stiles debates whether or not he should be offended. "I just. You need to know something. About . . . this."

"O . . . kay," agrees Stiles warily. Is this some weird werewolf thing? Are they accidental mates-for-life now? Because he knows that wolves are monogamous in the wild but like, so are humans supposedly, and they still date, right? So—he's not saying he's necessarily _opposed_ to it, but he's also pretty sure that Being Together Forever is the kind of conversation you have a _really long time_ from where they are now, and also, he's only turning seventeen a month from now and that kind of commitment is—

"What is wrong with you?" Derek asks. "Your heartbeat is like a Metallica song right now."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, it's—wait, you listen to Metallica? _Metallica_?"

"Not the point, Stiles."

"Um, _kind_ _of_ the point, if you're a Metallica fan then we're going to have some serious radio-related problems on road trips—"

"_Stiles._ What are you freaking out about?"

He sighs. Looks at the ground. Tries not to wish that the floor would open up and swallow him. "I just. I maybe didn't, um. Okay it just occurred to me that the only other werewolf-human relationship I've ever seen is Scott and Allison's and, okay, maybe not the best example of balance and communication but, I mean, the devotion thing, they have that, so it got me thinking that maybe it's like a wolf thing? And um, not that I don't—uh, not that—I mean I'm not saying that I _don't_ or, uh, wouldn't? But just that if this is like a Werewolves Mate For Life thing than maybe we should wait to have that particular—"

Derek is laughing. He covers his eyes with his hands, pinching lightly at the bridge of his nose. "Stiles," he says, and his voice sounds light and fond—something Stiles isn't used to yet, something that makes his heart clench a little. "I am not trying to werewolf-propose to you right now."

Stiles frowns. "Hey," he objects, "I would be an _awesome_ mate, okay."

That sets Derek off again, though even this kind of—Stiles assumes—uncontrollable laughter still seems controlled, still amounts to little more than a sustained chuckle. "Okay," he concedes, agreeably enough. "But that's just . . . not at _all_ what I was going to say."

"But they do though, right?" Stiles asks, not able to help himself. "Mate for life?"

Derek stops laughing. "Yes," he says shortly, and then rides over any comment Stiles might have made: "I was going to tell you that we can't—that I'm not having sex with you."

Stiles stares at him. And stares. And stares.

"_Dude_," he whines after, seriously, a _really long_ silence, in which Stiles flaps his mouth mutely and Derek stands with his arms over his chest, looking serious. "Why _not_?"

"You're sixteen, for one thing," Derek reminds him, and Stiles says—okay, fine, a _little_ petulantly—"Seventeen in a month."

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Yeah, _that's_ a good way to argue for emotional maturity," he says dryly, and sighs. His voice is almost gentle when he adds, "I'm not saying we can't do _anything._"

Stiles rubs his hand over his head and tries not to stamp his foot. Because, okay, he's not even sure he wants that, yet, or at all, or . . . whatever, he's not—sex is a _big deal_, sex with _dudes_ is a whole new can of warms he hasn't even started opening yet, and—maybe he should start watching gay porn for like, tutorials. Or something.

"What's the leeway for changing your mind on that?" he asks hopefully, and Derek's expression doesn't change when he looks at him. Stiles sighs. "Sooo, pretty minimal."

"You can . . ." Derek hesitates. "That's not to say that you can't. With anyone. Just—not with me."

Before he can reform the words into something less startled, Stiles blurts, "Wait, is that—_okay_ with you? I mean is that what you . . . uh, want?"

Derek looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't . . ." he looks hard at something by the toe of his shoe and finishes, ". . . no."

"Um," says Stiles. "You don't _know_, or you 'don't, no'?" Derek doesn't answer, but his mouth tightens around the edges. "Because if that's," begins Stiles, and swallows, "if that's what you—I mean, I know we never discussed the actual _terms_ of—but I guess I kind of assumed that we were, uh, you know, or whatever, I—not that _you_ can't, if you want to, I know that I'm not exactly the most—"

"No," Derek interrupts, and Stiles is afraid to ask, so he doesn't. He just gives up, blowing all his breath out and waiting, until Derek makes a sound like a growl and holds his hand out. Stiles grabs it, closing his eyes.

He grins. "No as in _no_," he says, the feeling pulsing through him, the itch in Derek's fingers to touch him tickling up his arm, the bitter heat at the thought Stiles could—that Stiles _would_. "Man, this trick is super useful, since you suck at using your words."

"For God's _sake_, Stiles," Derek grumbles, but he loops his hand around the back of Stiles' neck and drags their mouths together, licking Stiles' lips open. Stiles doesn't let go of his hand, but he slides his free arm up to the collar of Derek's shirt and tangles his fingers in it, pulling himself up.

"I'm not changing my mind," Derek says as the stumble back against the wall again, and Stiles nods.

"Okay," he mumbles, kissing Derek again, wanting _always_ to be kissing Derek again, why is talking even _necessary_? "Okay, fine—"

"I'm serious."

"_Fine,_" Stiles agrees, "we'll pinky swear about it later, Jesus, just _kiss _me—"

And Derek does.

.x.

By the time Stiles goes home, it's almost four. Derek goes for a run, because how _else_ is he supposed to work off the feeling of being with Stiles, the frenetic energy of him and the crazy way his heart beats when Derek is around? It's the worst case of blue balls ever, and Derek would hate it if it weren't just reward for dating a _teenager._

"Laura," he says out loud, knowing his dreams aren't going to answer him while he's awake, "what am I _doing_?"

He drags a hand over his face, half-hoping that when it's gone his sister will be standing in front of him.

Of course she isn't. Derek isn't so lucky.

He drags himself back to the car and drives to the ice rink. Isaac's bike is parked out front, so Derek knows that at least one of his Betas is there. He hesitates outside the door, sniffing for Erica.

She can't be serious, about leaving the pack; she knows what happens to Omegas. It's an empty threat. It has to be.

Still, he doesn't like the way she had smelled, like anger and like _fear. _What is Erica afraid of? What about Jackson is so terrifying?

Teenage girls make no _sense._

He pushes open the door. Isaac is by himself, reading a book on the Zamboni with his headphones on. He tugs them off as Derek comes in.

"Hey," he says, sounding cautious. "Are you—"

"Everything's fine," Derek answers automatically.

"Did Stiles—"

"Everything's _fine_," Derek repeats, this time a little pointedly. Isaac grins.

"Right." He jumps down off the Zamboni and they both sit on the couch, Derek toying with his phone and Isaac playing with the fraying threads on the bottom of his sweater. There is something Isaac's not asking, so Derek waits.

After a few minutes, Isaac takes a deep breath and says, "So I was thinking. About, um, where we live."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"Well," continues Isaac, hurriedly, "it's just that—we live at an ice skating rink? Which is fine, I guess, except I really miss having a shower. And . . . I still _have_ the house. Technically. There's no reason why no one is living in it until it gets sold."

Derek frowns. It's not that the idea doesn't make sense, but it also feels a lot like squatting.

Which, okay, yes, he knows he is currently living in a storage shed of an ice skating rink. Shut up, Stiles-in-his-head.

"I don't know that I'll be . . . allowed," he says carefully. "To live there. With you."

Isaac frowns. "What do you mean? Of course you can. It's _my_ house."

"No," Derek says, and sighs, not knowing how to phrase it. "I mean that I don't know if the _town_ would let me."

Isaac's brow furrows until he gets it, and then he looks away quickly, embarrassed. "Oh," he mutters. "Right, yeah."

"There's no reason _you_ can't live there," Derek reminds him, aiming for gentle and probably only achieving 'quiet.'

"No," answers Isaac immediately, and then flushes. "I mean, no. It's a big house."

Derek nods. It's not really about the house. He's an emotionally constipated idiot, but even he knows that.

"Okay," he says, and Isaac pulls his feet up onto the cushions, bumping them against the side of Derek's leg. He nods towards the game console on the floor. "Want to try not losing for once?" he asks.

Isaac grins. "Game on," he says, and bends down to toss Derek a remote.

.x.

When Stiles gets home, his Dad is sitting in the kitchen across from the school counselor. Ms. Morales smiles at him as they stand, shaking his Dad's hand.

"Uh, hey, you guys," Stiles says slowly. "What's . . . up?"

"Ms. Morales came by to talk to you, Stiles," his dad explains. "You never told me you were thinking about working part-time for the counseling office."

Stiles blinks. " . . . I didn't?" he asks faintly. "Gosh. I wonder how that slipped my mind."

His Dad ruffles what little hair Stiles has as he walks past, back towards the kitchen, and Stiles tries not to think about the fact that he'd just _stopped_ lying to his father.

"Weird that I could apply for something and totally not remember it," he tells Ms. Morales coolly once the door has shut.

She smiles. "I just wanted to check in," she assures him, voice smooth. "How have you been feeling lately?"

"Super awesome," Stiles says, and doesn't even know if he's lying or not.

"You never came to your session, after the massacre at the police station," she reminds him, sitting back down in a fluid motion that is kind of mesmerizing. "All the others came."

"I was fine," Stiles answers automatically, and takes a seat at the opposite side of the table. "I didn't need counseling."

Ms. Morales smiles. "Maybe not," she concedes. "But training? _That_ could be useful."

He frowns. "Training to do what?" he asks, and Ms. Morales flicks her clenched fist open to reveal a tiny fire burning in her palm, leaving the skin unblemished.

"This," she says.

Stiles startles so badly that he falls out of his chair. "What the—are you—?"

"I'm not a—what was the word you've been using?—Baba Yaga," she says, magically knowing what he had been trying to ask. "I'm a Spark. We're not all both. In fact, most of us are one or the other."

Stiles frowns. "But . . . why am I both, then?"

Ms. Morales shrugs. "It's hereditary. Your mother must have also been."

_More secrets_, Stiles thinks.

"So you're, what? Here to be my witchy powers guide?"

Ms. Morales closes her palm and the fire disappears. She rubs her fingers together and some ash falls onto the table. "Alan—Dr. Deaton can't help you with this. I can. Do you want to know, or not?"

Stiles thinks—for once—ahead. He thinks of afternoons lying to his dad, telling him that he's working at the counseling office when really he's learning how to make fire burn in his palm. He thinks of being able to read his mother's twisted Russian handwriting. He thinks of the ways he had thought himself fully human, and the ways he's learning that he isn't.

"Yes," he says, and takes Ms. Morale's hand when she offers it.

.x.

Scott meets him at the ice rink and they drive over in Derek's Camaro. Derek doesn't say much on the ride over, but Scott toys with the radio for a few minutes before turning it off.

"Do you think she'll be happy to see me?" he asks. "Do you think she'll—I mean, I know we left things in a weird place, I know we're not still dating or anything but, she freed us, right? That means something, right?"

"I don't know," Derek tells him.

They park across the street. Derek leaves the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition in case they need to make a getaway. It feels wrong when he knocks on the Argents' front door, but he doesn't think they'll take as kindly as Stiles does to him using the window.

Beside him, Scott bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, like he's excited, but Derek can smell his nervousness. Even if he couldn't, he'd be able to see it in the way Scott keeps turning his pockets inside-out and then shoving them back to normal.

Chris Argent opens the door, his expression carefully blank. They all look wordlessly at one another until Chris asks, "Are you here about the kanima?"

"Yes," Derek says, because there's no point in lying.

"Also to see Allison," Scott adds, like they aren't here to see Allison _about the kanima_, like he just wanted to pop in and say hello. Then again, who knows, with Scott. A part of him probably did.

"Allison won't be happy to see you," Chris warns him, but—to Derek's surprise—steps aside and lets them in. He calls his daughter's name up the stairs, and then they both stand in the hallway. It's not like Derek had expected anyone to offer him something to drink, but he doesn't like having his back to the exit. He shifts so that he's got the door on his left side and space to fight on the right.

Allison appears at the top of the stairs, the kanima at her feet. It hisses, and Allison's face drops all expression. She walks slowly down the stairs, her eyes never leaving Derek. "What are you doing here," she demands flatly, only a question because of the phrasing. "Scott, I _told_ you—"

"I know," Scott agrees, nodding quickly. "I know, it's not that."

"We have to talk," Derek says, and her eyes flash.

"I have nothing to say to you," she spits, and the kanima hisses again, crouching low. Allison looks down, expression suddenly shifting into annoyance, and she says, "Grandfather, _stop it._"

The kanima sulks, butting its head against her leg like a dog, tail curling in the air around her wrist. Allison catches it in her palm and runs her thumb along the side, a reminder maybe, a promise.

Scott shuffles a half-inch toward the stairs. "We wanted to talk about what to do," he tells her carefully. "About the kanima."

Allison reaches the last step. She puts her hand back in a gesture for the kanima to stay on the stairs. "I don't think you have any say at all in what gets done about Grandfather," she tells him flatly. "I'll follow the Code. That's all there is to say about it."

"No," disagrees Scott, cutting his glance to Derek and sounding urgent, "no, Allison, it's not, it's—if you break the rules of the kanima you _become_ the kanima."

She raises a cool eyebrow. "What makes you think I'll break the rules?" she asks.

Derek says, "Well, you did try to kill everybody."

Scott hits him in the shoulder. "Dude," he snaps, "her _mom_ had died, give her a break."

Derek tries not to roll his eyes, because _only Scott_ would think that was a _legitimate excuse for murder. _

"We're done here," Allison says, and Chris opens the door, gesturing for them to get out.

"Allison," tries Scott, and Derek can hear the desperation in his voice, the want, the fear, "Allison, I'm just trying to—"

"We're _done_ here," she snarls, and the kanima rears up at her side. "I don't want to see you anymore, Scott. I mean it."

Scott backs up, his hands in the air. "Okay," he mumbles. "Okay. Allison. Okay."

Derek lets Chris usher them out. Scott shoves his hands into his pockets and doesn't turn them inside-out. He kicks hard at the ground, waves of misery spooling out around him.

"She doesn't love me anymore, does she?" he asks, looking up at Derek but not really raising his head, like he's expecting to be hit.

Derek puts a hand on Scott's shoulder and squeezes once before letting go. "I don't know," he says honestly. And then, because his answer makes Scott drop his eyes and droop his shoulders, he adds: "I'm sorry."

Scott leans into him. They walk back to Derek's car with their shoulders touching.

.x.

_interlude_

Allison watches from the window as the Camaro pulls into the street. She watches until they've turned the corner. Her Dad is standing in the doorway to her room, leaning against the doorframe, while her grandfather curls up on the bed, flicking his tail.

"I promised him blood," Allison says out loud. "I intend to give it to him."

Her dad pushes off the wall, coming inside. "You'll stick to the Code," he tells her. "I'll not have you becoming Kate."

Allison shrugs. "Have you seen the triskeles around the Hale house?" she asks. "There's plenty to keep us busy, even within the Code."

"And Derek?" her father asks.

Allison reaches out and lets her grandfather press his head up against her palm. "We can wait for Derek," she says. "We have plenty of time."

She feels a hand touch her shoulder and she leans into it, closing her eyes. She misses her mother.

"And what about Scott?"

The name burrows its way through her skin and down into her heart, pinching the nerve endings. She keeps her eyes closed and breathes through it, tries not to think of the way he had looked at the foot of her stairs, eyes big and gold and sweet for her, jaw uneven. She tries not to think of the way he had grinned, just for a second, when she'd appeared at the top of the stairs, tried not to think of how he had sounded when he said _Allison, Allison I'm trying to-. _

"Scott," she says around the frog in her throat, "if Scott breaks the Code, we'll—"

She can't finish the sentence, but she can't pick and choose, either. That's just as bad, that's _worse_ than not following the Code at all. The rules have to apply to everybody or they don't stand up as _rules_. She'll get the chance to avenge her mother if Derek steps out of line, but—

But if Scott steps out of line, she'll be forced to kill him, too. That's the Code. That's the real _point_ of the Code, the one that no one ever talks about. It's not just to keep hunters from killing everyone, but also to remind them that sometimes you _have to_ kill everyone.

"Allison," her dad murmurs, sorrowful, and collects her in his arms as if she's scattered around the room. Maybe she is.

"If Scott breaks the rules," she tries again, trying to be strong, trying to stamp out the weakness that got her mother killed, but she still can't. She _still_ can't.

"Okay," her dad agrees, saving her. "Scott too, okay."

.x.

_interlude_

Erica doesn't go home for a long time. She runs, at first, not in any direction and then just as far from the preserve as she can get. She doesn't want to smell her pack, doesn't want to be reminded of what she stands to lose.

It's not about fucking _Jackson, _she snarls to herself, though he certainly doesn't make himself a particularly appealing pack mate. It's about _family_, it's about—

Erica stops when she reaches river. She picks up a rock and hurls it as hard as she can into the water.

Jackson has always had it so fucking _easy,_ she thinks, picking up another stone. It feels good to watch it dunk into the water with a splash. It feels good to get her fingers wet when she sifts along the riverbank. Jackson is handsome and popular and good at lacrosse, but Erica couldn't even climb a fucking _rock wall_ without a seizure taking her over, and no one ever asks about why she hadn't felt it coming because the answer is she _had._

And it's not that she had wanted to die or anything, but the wall had been there laughing at her and she'd wanted, just once, to be _stronger_ than the seizures, to climb to the top and then drop back down and force the seizure _out_ and _away_ and—

She has a family now, a pack, she has the way Isaac's eyes trace the wrinkles in her skirt and the warm weight of Boyd's hand on her neck and the way Derek's voice has laughter in it when he says _we're not having an _orgy_, Erica, Jesus. _They are _hers,_ she has fought and _bled_ for them, and Jackson just gets to—

To waltz in and _take them—_

Erica grits her teeth. She knows what she is—abrasive and angry all the time, dressing in too-short skirts because she likes them but also because she _can_ now, and it feels good to have the Bite, to be like this, but it also feels like she can't breathe because the Bite is the only _reason_ she's like this.

She throws another stone and then drops her head into her hands. She's not going to cry, because she's not a crier, because crying didn't take her seizures away and it won't fix this, either.

A hand lands on her shoulder. She spins, claws automatically spitting out.

The woman chuckles. She's wearing long, soft-looking jeans and a top with a band logo that Erica has never heard of. She smells like roses and like wolf, and Erica lets her teeth sharpen, just in case.

"Oh, put those away," the woman tells her, still smiling. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just wanted to talk."

"About what?" Erica asks.

"You," the woman says.

Her eyes ring red.


	3. and they rolled their terrible eyes

"I'm going to lose Erica," Derek says to Laura's gravestone, "so come _back._"

The cemetery is quiet. No one rises. Not even ghosts stick around for Derek Hale.

"You left," Derek says before he can think not to. The words spill out again: "I needed you, and you _left_."

He can feel her locket in his hand.

.x.

_interlude_

She doesn't stop this time.

GET OUT, GET OUT, the voice shouts, and Lydia's whole body is trembling but she says: "_No._"

The house is dead like leaves and burnt like charcoal, it smells like flesh and like lilacs, she had been kissed by a dead man in this room. The wolfsbane had felt real. The wolfsbane _still_ feelsreal.

Her hands are shaky and pale when she curls them around the handles of the dresser, but she doesn't let that matter as she rips the doors open.

Lydia's eyes are closed. She is still standing here, but she is standing in the protective conclave of her own eyelids.

"Get out," the voice says, weaker this time, a whisper.

And Lydia says, "No."

Lydia opens her eyes . . .

. . . and finds Jackson's face pressed into her neck, his hands encircling her waist. He has sneaked over to her house every night since That One.

She won't play his mother forever, but she's willing to let it slide for now. His grip tightens in his sleep. Lydia rolls over, facing him, and traces the lines of his face as he rides out the nightmare.

She never wakes him. He might wish that she would, but she won't, because Lydia Martin knows all about nightmares, knows that the only thing you can do is have them and then claw your way out.

_Speaking of, _she thinks, frowning at the memory of the dresser in the Hale house. If she could just stay _asleep_ long enough.

"Do you still," he asks with his eyes closed as he comes awake, his voice ragged, "do you still—?"

She presses a kiss to his forehead. "Yes," she whispers back. "Yes, I do still love you. Yes."

He relaxes, withdrawing his arms and twisting his mouth into a smirk. "Of course you do," he tells her, familiar, slick smugness coating the word, and Lydia smiles, rolling her eyes.

She loves Jackson, but 99% of the time she also wants to punch him in the throat.

"Don't be an asshole," she scolds, and throws the covers back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. When she shifts her weight forward to stand, Jackson's arms dart out and drag her back. She breathes out a laugh of surprise as he stamps kisses along the back of her neck, nuzzling at her with his nose and inhaling deep. "Oh my God," she says, pushing lightly at him, "are you _smelling_ me, you total freak?"

"You smell good," he replies unrepentantly. "I can smell, like, _everything_ now. I can smell me all over you. You should always wear my clothes, always."

She snorts. "Okay," she agrees, and the easy response startles him so badly that he pulls back. She laughs. "So long as you start wearing hot little mini dresses and stockings."

He makes a face. "Yeah, _no_," he tells her flatly, "_not_ happening."

"Well, there's your answer then," she says, and untangles his arms from around her. She gets out of bed and tosses him his discarded shirt from the floor. It's almost ten, so her parents will be gone. The maid doesn't get here until noon—they have time, if they want, to lounge around.

Jackson looks petulant as he slips the shirt over his head. "I don't want you smelling like everybody _else_," he mutters, sliding his feet over the edge of the bed and onto the floor.

"Too damn bad," Lydia answers, peeling open her closet door and shuffling around for an easy dress. "I live in a world that has other people in it. I'm not catering to your magical wolf powers. Get over it."

Jackson scowls, but doesn't argue. He looks like a spoilt three-year-old denied a toy, and she wants to roll her eyes. Instead she can feel herself smiling.

She loves him best like this, pouting and terrible. She loves him when he walks through the halls of school with his head high and his back straight, hating everyone, daring them all to fucking _touch _him. She loves him when he is an asshole.

Lydia frames Jackson's thighs with her knees, settling on his lap. They are nothing but vicious pieces of a puzzle they have no picture for, but the ugly bits are what makes the image _interesting._

"You can be such a bitch sometimes," Jackson says, nudging her with his nose, curling his blunt nails into the skin on her back.

"I _know,_" Lydia answers, delighted, and grinds into his lap. He breathes out a groan, arching up involuntarily, and she loves that she does this to him, that she can do this. She rolls her hips, once, twice, just enough to feel him get hard beneath her and then—

She climbs off. "Let's have breakfast," she says, snatching last night's dress off the floor and pulling it over her head.

"Oh my God," moans Jackson. "You are such a fucking_ tease_, Lydia, what the actual _fuck_. Why do you _do_ shit like that?"

Lydia doesn't say, "control," because Jackson is asking a question he already knows the answer to.

She thinks of Peter crawling inside of her brain and planting worms, rotting pieces of her away until she was buried with him. She had tried to say something, all those weeks ago in Allison's bedroom, had tried to say _help me_ and _please_, but no one had answered, and no one had come.

Allison's problems are bigger, Lydia, we don't have _time_ for you, Lydia, there are bigger things at _stake._

_Well, fuck you_, she thinks as Jackson rises, tugging painfully at his shorts. Jackson, who's a douchebag to her friends and won't tell her he loves her in public, pushes her against the wall with one hand and takes her mouth like he's not planning to give it back.

She doesn't fight, leans into it with both her hands scraping against his buzz cut, nails sharp. He kisses her until she thinks dizzily that she's going to be able to lick the back of his throat, and when she arches up to try, he pulls away.

He holds the door open, preening. He pulls away when she tries to kiss him again. "Breakfast?" he asks.

"Bastard," she calls him, but when he pulls off his shirt and hands it to her, she puts it on, and grins.

.x.

Derek wakes from a dream not about Laura. He can't remember fully what it entailed, something innocuous, something not-a-nightmare, something about clouds.

That in itself is enough to worry him.

Isaac snores, starting lightly from where he had fallen asleep against the couch. Derek doesn't really think about it, just puts his hand on the crown of Isaac's head to settle him. Isaac shifts under the gesture and then sighs, grinning a little.

"I always suspected you were jealous of my hair," he mumbles with his eyes still closed.

Derek snatches his hand back, horrified. He curls his lip into a sneer. "You were shaking the couch every time it moved," he says by way of explanation, and gets to his feet. "I'm going to clean off."

As he walks toward the door, Isaac stands and follows him. "Yeah, um, about that," he says. "I know you feel weird about the living-with-a-minor thing, and I can appreciate that."

Derek casts him a look over his shoulder. "Good." He switches on the hose and shudders under how cold the water is as it washed over him.

"But," continues Isaac, "I had this thought."

Derek pauses.

"I thought that maybe we could wrangle it so that, um—" Isaac breaks off. Derek looks up from the spigot and frowns at the apprehension that is spilling out across the back lot.

"You thought . . . ?" he prompts, not ungently.

"I thought that maybe we could—" Isaac swallows. The rest comes out all in one breath: "I thought that maybeyoucouldassumecustodyof me?"

Derek stares.

And stares.

Isaac is glaring hard at the ground in perfect stillness, not fidgeting or blushing but keeping his gaze determinedly on the cement. "It's just," he goes on, sounding tired, "Lately I've been getting all these calls from Social Services, you know. They want to put me in foster care. I keep telling them that I'm staying with friends, but—I mean, I'm not? So they don't have any way to confirm it. And I can't keep fielding them forever. Eventually they're just going to show up at school and take me away. The uh, laws are pretty strict about minors."

"They're not taking you anywhere," Derek says instinctively, and Isaac at last looks up, relief spread wide across his face.

"But they could, though," he says. "That's why I have to be tied to you in some sort of legal way. Otherwise—otherwise, I don't know, there's not much anyone can—"

"We'll figure it out," Derek cuts him off, firmly, confidently, like he has no doubts, and Isaac caves to the Alpha and nods, reassured.

_Jesus, Laura, _Derek thinks. _What the hell do I do now?_

.x.

"The thing is," says Scott, "the thing is, I _know_ she still loves me. I think she's just, you know, going through a lot right now. She needs _time._"

Stiles shoves his book bag into his locker. "You know, Scott, there is a point where your optimism becomes both inspiring and sad, all at the same time."

Scott shoots him a look. On anyone else it would be a glare, but Scott's never been good at putting real venom behind anything he does. "I'm _serious_, Stiles."

"I do not doubt it, dude. That's kind of my point."

Scott adjusts his backpack and shoulders Stiles' locker closed. Stiles spins the lock. "I can't believe we have to keep going to school," Scott mutters. "I mean, we're trying to save the _town_, here. You'd think they'd give us a reprieve."

"How do you know the word 'reprieve?"

"Dude. I can read."

"Scott, you haven't voluntarily read something without pictures in it since the second grade."

They pause outside the Chemistry lab. Scott waits as Stiles peers through the slotted window. Allison is already there, sitting by the window next to someone Stiles has spoken to twice in his entire career at Beacon Hills High. Jackson and Danny are a few stations back, and Lydia beside them with an empty seat.

"Is she there?" Scott asks, hopeful and despondent in the way that only Scott McCall can be. "Is she alone? Can I sit next to her?"

Stiles claps his shoulder. "Yeah, buddy. She's there. But she's next to someone already. And we talked about her needing time, remember?"

Scott blows a breath out of his nose. "Oh. Right."

As they shuffle inside, Allison casts a casual glance over her shoulder. When her eyes meet Stiles', she turns away quickly, letting her dark hair fall over her shoulder in a wall. She taps her pencil against her notebook and looks hard out of the window. Stiles follows her gaze. White liquid drips down from a branch outside and lands on the pane.

Stiles' jaw drops. "Hey buddy, why don't you go sit by Lydia," he suggests distantly, shouldering his way to the front of the classroom. He puts his hand on the arm of the guy whose name he can't even remember. "Hey man, I'll do your homework for two weeks if you give me this seat."

The guy's eyebrows rise, but he shrugs and shoves his books into his bag. "Whatever, sounds good," he says, looking pleased and bewildered as he hops off the stool.

Allison opens her mouth to protest, but Stiles is already talking. "You brought the _kanima_ to _school_?!" he hisses. "Are you _crazy_?!"

Allison pulls in on herself, rounding out her shoulders. "He followed me here," she whispers back. "Look, it's _Gerard_, what do you _expect_ me to do? Leave him without any guidance at home? You think _that's_ the better alternative?"

". . . Well," he mutters. "Okay. Maybe not. But bringing him _here_ can't possibly be the best solution, either!"

Allison is opening her mouth to respond when the bell rings for class to begin. They're doing an experiment that Stiles only half pays attention to, distracted as he is by the fact that _Gerard,_ in _lizard form_, is hanging out just above their heads. He does a mental count of supernatural beings in the room: Jackson, Scott, Lydia(?). Who even _knows_ with Danny, since no one that perfect has any place being human.

Stiles takes a few deep breaths as Allison begins wordlessly partitioning out the supplies. "When the hell did this become the Wayside School," he wonders out loud, and is surprised when Allison giggles.

She looks like she wants to clap her hand to her mouth and gather the sound back up afterwards, but she meets his eyes and doesn't. Stiles cracks a little grin.

"You totally read the stories, didn't you," he accuses.

"I liked Miss Nogard best," she answers, and he forgets, in the way her smile flashes at him, that they are standing on opposite side of a battle line.

"No way. It was all about Miss Zarves."

"Stiles, there _was no_ Miss Zarves."

"That's the point! Best teacher _ever_!"

Allison laughs, and Stiles laughs with her. "You'd have liked my Aunt Kate. She used to read my those stories all the time," Allison says without thinking, and in the way their eyes meet and their smiles fall from their faces, Stiles knows that they've both remembered where loyalties lie.

"Um," he says, trying to be delicate, "I mean, I'm kind of—dating her arch enemy? Or like, victim, or. Whatever."

Allison's hand stills on the pencil she had been fidgeting with. She keeps her eyes focused on the way the table meets the lip of her notebook's edge as she says, "Well, you'd have liked her the way I knew her," and then reaches over to turn the hot plate on, never meeting his eyes.

It's not until after class, when he's listening to Scott rattle on at him about _what did she say _and _did she ask about me_ and _why were you laughing_ that he realizes he'd told her he was dating Derek.

"Shit," he says, out loud.

.x.

Derek makes a point not to mention the Isaac situation to Peter, no matter how badly he's tempted. The truth is that he wants to trust him at least as badly as he wants to kill him, and it's a dangerous line to be walking.

"I brought you a latte," Peter announces, showing up at the ice rink at the exact moment that Derek is thinking of him. It would freak Derek out more if Peter hadn't had a knack for doing it even before the fire.

Derek frowns at the liquid being held out to him. "What the hell am I supposed to do with a latte?" he asks.

Peter blinks at him as if he is too stupid to live. " . . . Well, most people drink them, but hey, it's up to you, big guy. Don't let me tell you how to run your life. Be the special-est snowflake you can be."

"Fuck you," Derek grits out, and balances the offending drink on top of the TV. "What do you want?"

Peter pulls a face. "What, I can't hang out? Aren't I a part of Pack Adolescence? Come on. Let's play Mortal Kombat and talk about how hard high school is."

"High school _is_ hard," Derek hears himself mutter defensively, though he's pretty sure he had meant to say _get out. _"We weren't all basketball MVP and captain of the track team."

"No," Peter agrees, and his smile is just soft enough to be cruel. "Some of us were _swimmers._"

Derek goes still. He doesn't let himself close his eyes against the memory of Kate in a red bathing suit, sitting in the lifeguard chair. Her handwriting had been perfect when she'd written _Ms. Kate Argent_ on the chalkboard. He'd thought his luck was unbelievable, that she should work at the pool, too. That he could see her twice a day.

"What do you want?" he asks again.

Peter sighs. "Look, as charming as it is to be ever-so-grudgingly accepted into the new Pack Hale, I'd like to remind you that there is a group of angry Alphas out there gunning for our blood, and all you seem to be able to do is have family breakfasts in shitty diners and make out with the Stilinski kid. Which, by the way, at some point we should probably talk about, because I didn't know the Bad Touch was a thing you were into. Maybe it's a result of some sort of, I don't know, trauma as a child. Were you ever touched inappropriately by someone old than you, because that can—ohhhh, wait."

Derek runs a hand over his face. "You just can't help yourself, can you?" he asks dully.

Peter shrugs smoothly. "It's a gift and a curse. But I'm serious about the Alphas."

Derek lowers himself onto the sofa, kicking his feet onto the armrest at the other end so that Peter doesn't feel invited to sit down. "Look, as long as they aren't actively aggressive, there isn't much I can do."

"They're marking your _territory_, Derek."

"They're _graffiti_-ing my territory. It's not the same." He raises an eyebrow. "You just want a fight."

For a second, Peter looks like he's going to deny it. Then he raises his hands in a gesture of amused defeat. "Guilty. I love the smell of Alpha blood in the morning."

"Ironic," Derek points out, "since you were one."

"Yes, thank you, until you set me on fire and slit my throat."

"Technically, I just slit your throat. The fire was not my doing."

"No," Peter agrees. "It was your boyfriend's."

Derek stiffens. "He's not my boyfriend," he says instantly, and hopes his voice is cold enough to imply detachment, to imply the kind of sick desire for control that Peter had suggested he wanted from Stiles. _Yes,_ he demands silently, _assume that._

It's better for Peter to think that Stiles is some kind of . . . whatever, than that he matters.

Which, okay, _Derek_ doesn't even want to go poking around in that mess for a solid answer for what Stiles actually is, what he actually means.

"Whoa, testy," says Peter, grinning. "Is the Boy Wonder getting a little clingy? They always do, those teenagers. Always wanting to talk about their _feelings._ It's so hard dealing with hormones, isn't it?"

Derek stands. "Let's be done now," he says flatly. "Thanks for the latte."

Peter follows his lead, walking towards the door, but he pouts. "You didn't even drink it. You're probably going to throw it away."

"Probably," Derek agrees.

"One tries and _tries_ to be nice," Peter sighs. "_Do svidanya_."

"One does a shitty job of it. _Ukhodi,_" Derek says, and pushes him out, closing the door behind him.

.x.

"So, werewolves," Danny says at lunch. "I thought maybe we could use this opportunity to talk about it."

The table goes quiet. Lydia says, "Wow, that was smooth."

Danny shrugs. "Look, guys. You don't have to let me into the Super Secret Clubhouse or whatever. Just, maybe could I have the basics so that I don't get dead by graduation?"

"Run away from pointy teeth," Stiles says helpfully. "Stay inside on the full moon. Jackson is still an asshole. That about sums it up."

"I'm not an asshole," Jackson says while Lydia snaps, "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs. "Jackson, your assholery is an objective fact."

Jackson reaches across the table and flicks Stiles' Adam's apple. "Just because Lydia won't touch your penis—"

"Rude," Lydia interjects mildly. "Can we _not_ talk about—"

"It's not even _about_ Lydia, dude, you're like the poster boy for—"

Of course it's Scott who adds, "Hey, I think even Jackson deserves—"

"_Even_ Jackson, what does _that_ mean, I'm not some—"

"Hey," interjects Danny suddenly, "what's Stiles' cousin Miguel doing here?"

Everybody turns around to look out the window, except Scott, who turns to look at Stiles. "Dude," he says, sounding wounded, "you have a cousin named Miguel that I don't know about?"

Instead of answering, Stiles points at the window, where Derek can be seen leaning against the door of his Camaro as Boyd, Isaac and Erica stand and head toward the cafeteria's exit.

"_Dude_," breathes Scott, "Derek's real name is Miguel and he's your _cousin_?!"

Stiles drops his head onto the table, and Lydia throws her head back as she laughs.

.x.

Erica doesn't smell right.

Derek keeps the red out of his eyes as she approaches, her hips with their familiar swing, her eyes a narrow gold. Isaac and Boyd bracket her shoulders so that her fingers brush up against their legs as they walk. He knows that sometimes she sleeps curled up between them, hands all linked in the dark, but until now he hasn't paid much attention. It is, after all, high school.

But now she doesn't smell like Boyd and Isaac and the ice rink; she smells like mud and dirt and _someone else._ Someone Derek doesn't know. Someone who has no right to her.

"What's up, doc?" Erica drawls lazily, but she doesn't meet his eyes, choosing instead to buff her nails on the hems of her leather jacket.

Derek frowns. "Where are the others?"

She shrugs. "Scott's little Posse of Friendship and Rainbows should be right behind us."

"Stiles' feet always move a little faster than everyone else's," Isaac adds with a fond little twist of his mouth. "He's like a little poodle in a herd of greyhounds."

"Dogs don't have herds, dumbass," Erica tells him, rolling her eyes.

"A pigeon in a murder of crows, then," Boyd supplies, and Isaac laughs.

"Carrier pigeon," he agrees.

"_Homing_ pigeon," Erica decides, and the three of them grin at one another like family, but Erica. _smells. wrong._

The front doors swing open again as Scott, Stiles, Jackson and Lydia spill out. Derek can feel Stiles' eyes on him, though he's still talking a mile-a-minute at Jackson, who aggressively ignores him in favor of sucking a spot on Lydia's neck.

The group comes to a rest in front of the Camaro, and Lydia extricates herself from Jackson's grip. "I'd like to make it clear that I'm here because I don't trust you to look after these idiots," she tells Derek, meeting his eyes with a kind of ferocity that reminds him of his sister. "I'm not part of your pack and I want nothing to do with your crazy uncle and I don't have to do what you tell me, but I'm part of this anyway so you might as well deal with it."

Derek studies her for a moment. Her hair is red, too light to be like Laura's, and she's shorter—Laura was always an inch taller than everybody else. But in the set of her jaw and narrow of her eye he can see his sister saying _you're the Alpha now._

"Okay," he tells her. "Fine."

Stiles startles. "Wait, what? How come she gets to do whatever she wants and I have to be the glorified chauffer all the time?"

Derek pretends not to have heard him. "Right. Listen. With the Alphas circling, we can't afford to be as sloppy as we have been. We're stepping up training. You'll be at the ice rink every day after school. We don't know what they want, but we have to assume they're hostile. We can't afford to be caught unawares."

"I won't be going to those," Lydia interjects primly. "I'm here in a consulting position only."

"Fine," says Derek.

"Me too," Jackson adds. Derek just looks at him. He lets his eyes deepen into amber, then orange, then red, lets the weight and drag of _Alpha_ run through him and out of him, lets it wrap around Jackson's wrist. _You belong here,_ he lets his body say, and Jackson straightens a little. "All right," he agrees quietly, after a minute of struggle. "All _right._"

"Good," Derek says sharply. "We start today."

His pack turns to go, but he feels Stiles lingering behind. "You couldn't send a text about this?" the younger boy asks as Derek gets into the car. Stiles leans on the open window, his elbows bumping up against the frame.

"In person is more effective," Derek answers. Trying to corral teenagers is like trying to juggle chainsaws. "Be there tonight."

Stiles salutes. "Roger." He begins to pull away before wincing. "Wait, shit. I forgot. I have super secret training with Deacon and Ms. Morrell tonight. I don't know how long it will go."

Derek starts the engine. "Postpone it," he orders. "Be at training. All the magic in the world won't help you if you get eaten before you can use it."

Stiles gulps. "Uh. Right. Okay."

He steps away from the Camaro. Derek pulls out of the parking lot and only glances in the rearview once. Stiles has already turned away and is taking the stairs into the building by twos.

.x.

"What did Derek want?" Scott asks, and Stiles says, "To make out," just to torture him.

Scott wrinkles his mouth. "_Dude_," he moans.

"What, it's okay for you to talk about how perfect Allison's boobs are for like seventeen hours but I can use the words 'make out' and 'Derek' in the same sentence?"

Scott's expression falls. He shifts his backpack guiltily on his shoulder. "I didn't . . . it's not 'cause he's a dude," he says quickly. "It's just that it's _Derek. _I kind of feel like you're making out with my brother."

Stiles stops walking. He presses one hand to his heart and uses the other to grab Scott's arm. "Dude," he says. "Dude, that's beautiful. That's really beautiful. I'm choking up."

"Shut up," Scott mutters. "You're an asshole."

Stiles grins. "Yeah," he says, "but you like it. I think the reason the Derek thing freaks you out so bad is because you're actually kind of in love with me."

"I'm not freaked out about the Derek thing," Scott reminds him, looking suddenly serious. "I respect your life choices, Stiles. You have the right to put it wherever you want to put it."

"Oh my God," says Stiles. "Oh my God, you did _not_ just say that."

"Jezebel says—"

"_Jezebel _says? You've been talking to Jezebel? Without me? On your own? What has she been saying? Is she peer pressuring you to go out, because trust me Scotty, you can't handle life with her as a wingowoman."

Scott shrugs. "She thinks I'd look good as a lady," he says without a trace of irony in his voice.

Stiles buries his face in his hands. "I've created a monster," he moans.

.x.

The Sherriff is in his office when Derek shows up. Nobody really talks to him, though the woman behind the counter smiles twice. He doesn't want to smile back, in part because he doesn't want to encourage conversation and in part because he's sort of seeing the Sherriff's son and flirting with one of his deputies is probably not the best way to get in his good graces.

Which, oh God, that's something Derek actually _cares_ about.

"Mr. Hale," the Sherriff greets, smiling through a bewildered expression. "What can I do for you, son?"

Derek takes the Sherriff's hand when it's offered and shoves the other one into his pocket. He twists his mouth and wishes suddenly that he'd thought this through a bit more thoroughly.

"It's, uh . . . " he coughs into his free hand. "Do you think we could go to your office?"

The Sherriff frowns, but nods, gesturing down the hall. As Derek follows, he keeps his eyes on the floor in an attempt to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Of course, given the fact that barely a year ago he was being paraded through here on charges of first-degree murder, that's really only possible by degrees.

Derek takes a seat as the Sherriff relaxes into his chair. There's a photograph of Stiles on the desk, but it's a terrible one—the teen's hands are folded on top of one another, resting on his knee. He's smiling awkwardly at the camera, his collar buttoned all the way. It must be a school photo.

The background is lasers, though, which makes Derek laugh in spite himself. The Sherriff follows his line of vision and grins. "I know, I couldn't believe it either. His first year of high school and he wants _lasers_? I told him to get gray. I think he did it in protest of school photos in general."

"Sounds like Stiles," Derek agrees thoughtlessly, and then coughs into his hand at the Sherriff's look. "I mean, you know. From what I know of him."

"Son," the Sherriff says, not unkindly, "it's been a long time since I've believed my son when he said he was spending the night studying at Scott's. And with . . . everything . . . that's been going on with Scott, well—I'm just saying, there's not an abyss in this world my boy wouldn't follow his best friend into, so."

It occurs to Derek, maybe too late, that he doesn't know exactly what Stiles has told his father. It occurs to him that maybe the Sherriff knows only that Scott is a werewolf and has no idea about the rest of it.

_You have to start trusting people,_ Deacon says in his head. _You trust too easily, _says Laura.

Derek takes a breath. "A long time ago you picked me up at school and said that I could trust you," he says, looking hard at the floor. "Is that still true?"

The Sherriff steeples his fingers and leans forward. He waits until Derek looks at him and then waits some more, his eyes on Derek's face, searching for something. "Yes," he says.

Derek nods. "Then I need your help," he confesses. "It's about Isaac Lahey."

.x.

After school, Stiles gives Scott his keys and sits on the front steps. Lydia perches next to him, playing a vicious game of Words with Friends against some poor sucker that won't know what's hit him after she's finished. Erica and Isaac are stacked in Isaac's motorbike's sidecar, and Boyd has stretched himself out on the warm cement. Jackson is playing wall-ball against the side of the school with Danny. Stiles still isn't sure what role Danny plays in all of this, but he knows about werewolves, so he guesses there's no reason he shouldn't hang around.

"Aren't we supposed to be at the ice rink by now?" Boyd asks without opening his eyes. "I'm not saying I need the extra training, but Derek isn't a big fan of fashionable tardiness."

"Derek's not a big fan of anything," Erica mumbles from the sidecar. She tucks her head under Isaac's chin and strokes her hand idly through the shaggy hair around his ears. He hums his agreement.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Look, you guys can go. Tell Derek I'm sorry, but Mr. Morrell got that crazy Buffy the Vampire Slayer look in her eyes when I told her we had to postpone, and as I'm significantly more afraid of her than I am of him these days, I couldn't leave."

"Dude, I'm not leaving you," Scott says firmly. "I don't trust her."

"You're not leaving him alone," Lydia reminds the group. "I'm going with. Whatever magic voodoo powers Stiles has, I'll bet I'm better at them. Anyway, there's no one better to tutor me in Werewolf Consulting than an actual Werewolf Consultant, is there?"

Scott frowns. "He's my best friend," he reminds her, not exactly frosty but not exactly warm and fuzzy either.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Down boy," he says, but he grins, reaching over to tug sharply on a lock of Scott's ridiculous hair. "There's enough of Stiles to go around. We can share."

"Tell that to Derek," Isaac calls from the sidecar.

Erica and Jackson snicker. Stiles flushes red and stoutly ignores them. "Who wants to talk about what an asshole Jackson is?" he offers hopefully.

"At least I'm consistent," Jackson says dryly, to Stiles' surprise.

"Consistently an asshole," Stiles agrees.

"Jackson donates all monetary Christmas gifts to charity," Danny says suddenly, flicking the lacrosse ball out of his stick. It bounces back and Jackson jumps up to sweep it out of the air.

Jackson growls. "Dude," he hisses. "Shut up. No I don't."

"You definitely do," Danny replies serenely. "Last year the BHCC sent him a thank-you card with glitter on it."

"It's just easier than spending it," Jackson snaps. "Whatever. I don't even choose, I give it to Danny and he donates it."

Lydia is the only one who seems unperturbed. She leans back against the steps and lets the sun drip onto her. "Well, that's true. He _does_ make Danny choose the organization."

"I'm an organization," says Stiles immediately. "I'm poor. I need it. Donate it to me. Pack Fund Twenty-Twelve."

"Wow," says Erica, sarcasm dripping off her words, "even when you're being nice, you're an asshole. Congratulations, you still suck."

Jackson drops his stick. "What is your _problem_?" he snaps, taking a step forward. Erica hoists herself out of Isaac's lap and kicks her boots off, letting her nails get long.

"What's _my_ problem?" she hisses. "This from Lord of the Douchecanoes."

Jackson opens his mouth to respond when a smooth voice cuts in: "Well, it's good to see that Derek has been doing good work towards some really solid pack unity."

Ms. Morrell leans against the open double doors of the school, her green silk shirt rolled up to the elbows. "You're all free to go," she adds before anyone can respond. "I'll take Stiles and Lydia with me. Scott, come back to pick them up any time after six."

"That's three _hours_ from now!" Stiles cries, and Ms. Morrell raises an eyebrow.

"You have a lot to learn," she tells him serenely, and then turns on her heel and walks back inside.

Scott shrugs apologetically. "Have fun, dude," he says. "See you at six."

"Don't scratch my car," Stiles warns as Lydia loops her arm through his, practically dragging him back up the path.

.x.

Derek's first words are: "Where's Stiles?" followed quickly by, "And who are you?"

In fact he knows who Danny is. He's pretty sure it's the kid who had watched him trade out various too-small shirts in Stiles' bedroom. The harsh question is really more for effect.

"Hey, Miguel," answers Danny, unperturbed. "Since Beacon Hills is apparently a death trap of weird shit, I figured I'd learn to protect myself." He winks at Jackson. "Plus, I promised Lyds I'd keep Erica from accidentally-on-purpose murdering Jackson."

Erica looks pleased and insulted at the same time. "I'm not going to kill him _accidentally,_" she says in what she might even think is a reassuring tone.

"Or at all," Scott prompts her gently. "Right? Erica?"

She shrugs. She doesn't smell as wrong now, having been in school all day, but she's not back to normal, either. And there is something in the way she moves, something jagged and confused, a movement she picked up somewhere that Derek has never been.

He sighs. "Fine," he says in Danny's general direction. "And Stiles?"

Erica makes a face. Isaac awkwardly avoids making eye contact. Scott shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs.

Finally, Jackson makes a huffing sound and rolls his eyes. "Ugh, whatever," he snaps. "Stilinski got bullied by the guidance counselor into staying after school. He's not coming. Who cares? Can we get started, please?"

Derek frowns. "I told him to postpone it," he tells the room at large, as if holding them responsible.

Jackson shrugs. "Well, he didn't."

"To be fair," Boyd interjects before Derek can respond, "Ms. Morrell looks like she can take care of herself. She can probably teach Stiles more about being a defensible human than you can."

Derek really hates that Boyd is probably the best werewolf in the room, given that he's also technically the youngest.

"Fine," he says again. "Then let's get started."

He's not sure, at first, what to do with Danny—his instinct is to make him watch, or to tag him as bait, but the first idea is pointless and the second sets a dangerous precedent. Though there might be some value in teaching the humans how to act when they're being hunted—how to mislead trackers, how to hide their scent, how to move in ways that wolves won't expect.

Though he's not entirely sure he wants to consider the implications of teaching his humans that they're pretty much always going to be on the run.

As it turns out, though, Danny doesn't need to be sidelined. He doesn't have a werewolf's strength, but he's smart, and fast, and intuitive; he manages to trick Jackson into punching Boyd, and does some weird hip wiggle thing just as Isaac is about to tackle him that distracts all parties involved.

Derek rolls his eyes at the sharp scent of Isaac suddenly getting _very interested_ in the curve Danny's waist. Teenagers, seriously.

"_Duuuuude_," whines Scott, wrinkling his nose, "am I like, the only one in at this party still clinging to my sexuality?"

Erica releases a shout of laughter. She reaches around Boyd to high-five Scott. "Maybe I should try making out with Lydia," she muses. "Just to see what the big deal is."

Jackson growls, low in the back of his throat, and Boyd rolls his shoulders back with a sigh, stepping behind Erica and running a hand down the side of her arms. "Don't bait the newbie," he scolds. She relaxes against him in a pout.

"Fine," she mutters. "I'll make out with Allison instead."

"Hey!" cries Scott, "If anyone's getting murdered for touching Allison's boobs, it's going to be _me._"

"It's going to be _nobody_," Derek corrects, desperately trying to get a handle back on the situation. "Nobody is getting murdered, and more importantly, _nobody is touching Allison._"

Isaac raises an eyebrow. "That's 'more important'?" he asks, sounding amused. "Priorities, boss."

Derek glares. "Can we focus please," he grinds out. "I'm glad you're all discovering the joys of fluid sexuality, but might I remind you that there is a _pack of Alphas_ that want to eat you."

"Sounds sexy," says Danny, and Derek buries his face in his hands.

"Get out," he orders them. "All of you. I want you to race to preserve boundary and back. Last one in spars with Boyd _and_ has to clean up the blood after."

"Ugh, I _hate_ cleaning," says Erica, and takes off, the boys trailing right behind her.

Boyd raises his eyebrows. "How come they've gotta fight me, and not you?"

Derek cuffs him on the shoulder. "Second-in-command," he reminds him. "You get all the boring jobs."

Boyd hums. "Okay," he says, agreeably enough. He lowers himself to a crouch, stretching his neck from side to side. "And the real reason you wanted me to stay behind?"

Derek huffs a tiny laugh. He hasn't done a lot right since becoming Alpha, but this, this is he knows was the right decision. He takes a seat beside his Second. "You're not going to like it," he warns.

"I usually don't," Boyd agrees.

"It's about Erica."

Boyd frowns. "If you're worried about her killing Jackson, she probably won't actually do it," he says. "I know she said after we dealt with the Alphas that we'd have to choose, but I think that if you give her time—"

"It's not about Jackson," Derek interrupts. "She's . . . she doesn't smell right. She's . . . been somewhere. Doing something."

His Second raises a dry eyebrow that has all the judgment a seventeen-year-old can muster in its curve. "Yeah," he agrees slowly, "that happens, generally. To animate beings."

"No," Derek explains with a roll of his eyes, "I mean that she's been somewhere _new_, doing something _different,_ with people whose scent I don't recognize." He hesitates, thinking of the way Boyd's fingers had trailed with such familiarity up Erica's arms. "The truth is, I'm not sure it's _people_ at all."

It takes Boyd a minute to catch on, but when he does, Derek sees a darkly furious light spark in his eyes. "You think she's working with the Alphas," he guesses flatly.

Derek shakes his head, denying the thought to himself as much as he is to Boyd. "Not . . . exactly," he says, keeping his words careful as Boyd's eyes flash gold. Derek flashes red back at him. Boyd's always had pretty exceptional control, but this is different. This is _Erica. _"But I think that there's something she isn't telling us. Maybe _can't_ tell us. Maybe she's being blackmailed, or manipulated, or threatened. But we can't take that chance."

Boyd stands. "So what do you want me to do about it?" he asks, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone. "Spy on her?"

Derek doesn't answer. He just watches Boyd pace back and forth until his Second's eyes fade from gold back to brown.

"I trust whatever method you decide on," Derek says, not without difficulty. "If you want to take a more direct approach, fine."

Boyd sighs, rubbing a hand over his head. "This is wrong," he says quietly, as the footsteps of four werewolves and, more distantly, one human come pounding toward them. "Erica isn't—Erica _wouldn't_."

"Not on purpose," Derek agrees, thinking of Kate, of the way her mouth had curved around the words _I love you._

"What does that—" Boyd begins, but shuts up as Erica and Jackson tumble through the door.

Erica punches the air. "_Ha_!" she crows. "I totally win!"

"No way," Jackson argues as he collapses onto the ground, one hand on his chest as he breathes. "I totally had you."

"That's so . . . whatever," Erica tells him dismissively, and stretches out with his feet at her head and vice versa. The exchange doesn't have any bite behind it. Both wolves are breathing too hard to put any energy into bickering.

Scott and Isaac aren't too far behind, squeezing themselves through the door at the same time. Isaac drops promptly into Erica's stomach and Scott stretches out on the far side of Jackson. Derek watches them breathe. They look like puzzle pieces laid out on the dining room table, waiting to be assembled. They look like they belong together.

Danny slips in through the door and grins. "Cool," he says. "You ready, Boyd?"

"Uhh—" Boyd begins, glancing at Derek. Derek shrugs.

"Danny came in last," he says. "Hunters and Alphas won't cut him a break just because he's human."

"But," Boyd begins, and goes down laughing as Danny leaps at him, brandishing a lacrosse stick.

Derek wants to scold them as they wrestle, clearly neither one trying very hard, but the other wolves are sitting up and hurling harassment and encouragement, placing bets on who'll come out on top; even Scott "Not In Your Pack" McCall has scooted closer to the group and is brandishing a five-dollar bill in the air.

Derek lets them be. He likes the way the echoes sound.

.x.

"You're doing it wrong," Ms. Morrell says, for what seems like the thousandth time in the past hour.

Stiles blows a frustrated breath out of his nose. "Yeah," he grinds out, "I've noticed, thank you."

Lydia snickers. She's been sitting on top of the monkey bars, watching him work and listening to every word Ms. Morrell says. Sparks are born, not made, but damn if Lydia Martin won't find a way to bend the universe to her will.

"We're not witches," Ms. Morrell tells him smoothly, coming to stand beside him. "Our work is not that specific. Don't try to focus on one thing—focus on your willpower. _Use_ it. Don't tell the universe what you want it to do; tell the universe what you want, and let it figure out how to make that want a reality."

Stiles huffs. "You realize that you're talking about the universe as if it's a sentient being," he tells her, and she raises an eyebrow.

"What makes you think it's not?"

Stiles stares at her. She has that crazy mysterious Dr. Deaton thing going on for her, but like, hotter and more badass. It's Buffy 2.0: bigger and badder and ten times as terrifying. "O-kaaaay," he says slowly, "can we leave the life-changing revelations about the cosmos to a later date? Right now I need to figure out how to set this _fucking _notebook on fire_._"

Behind him, he hears a faint scratch. As he turns, Lydia drops a lit match off the monkey bars directly onto the notebook in front of him. It smolders on the cover and then catches in a slow fire, munching from the middle outward in kind of slow contentment.

He groans. "Lydi_aaaa_, now I have to get a new one."

"Maybe not," Ms. Morrell tells him thoughtfully. "You wanted it to be on fire. It's on fire."

"Yeah, but only because Lydia is an asshole." Lydia kicks a leg out and catches him on the shoulder. "Ow! What the hell!"

The guidance counselor sighs like Stiles is the worst. "You're thinking too specifically again. Did you want the paper to be on fire? Yes. Now it's on fire. Who's to say the universe _didn't_ bend to your will?"

_Because that's ridiculous_, Stiles doesn't say.

What he says is, "When you came to my house, you opened your palm and there was a flame burning in it. I want to do _that._"

"You can't," Ms. Morrell informs him flatly. "You're only half of what I am." At his look, she rolls her eyes. "It's not a value judgment, Stiles. Your father is a human."

Lydia drops off the monkey bars. "I'm bored," she declares flatly. "Stiles sucks at the spark thing. Can we do something else now?"

"Hey," Stiles says suddenly when his stomach twists at the familiar bounce of Lydia's hair, "wait. If all I have to do is want things badly enough, how come Lydia never fell in love with me? I wanted that as badly as I ever wanted anything else, and for a long-ass time, too."

Lydia pulls a face. "What is it with supernatural creatures trying to control my brain? Stop it."

Ms. Morrell shrugs off her jacket. Stiles wishes he was more surprised to see a gun holster hooked over her shoulders. "You can't force people to want things," she tells him serenely. "And arguably, you got what you asked for. You wanted Lydia to notice you—well, she noticed you. The fact that she's not in love with you is probably because she doesn't find you—"

"Okay," Stiles interrupts quickly. "I'd be good with skipping today's Lydia Martin ego decimation special."

The girl in question reaches over to pinch his cheek cheerfully. "Aww, cute. It has a name."

Ms. Morrell sighs.

.x.

_interlude_

Allison sits alone at the picnic table as she waits for her father to pick her up. Less than a month ago she had sat across from Stiles and joked about her eyebrow complex, but now she's surrounded by strangers and her grandfather is perched in a tree outside, dripping venom.

Her thumb hovers over her cellphone, wanting to punch in apologetic regrets that she's not entirely sure she even feels. There _are_ monsters in the world, she reminds herself; one of them sleeps at the foot of her bed every night and keeps paralyzing squirrels.

"Lydia," she says out loud, and isn't quite sure why. Lydia what? She's dating Jackson. She's chosen her side.

Her Dad's truck pulls up and he rolls the window down. "You ready, sweetheart?"

There has been no more training, no more breaking out of handcuffs or target practice in the yard. Allison rides shotgun on weekends when they drive outside of Beacon Hills to find the monsters under other peoples' beds. Allison is tired of looking under her own. She'd rather let them settle there. The fear that one day one of her monsters will reach out and drag her under by an ankle is . . . oddly comforting.

She can see her crossbow in the back seat. There's blood on the tip of it that she hasn't been able to clean off; it's brown and rusty now.

"Ready," she says as she gets into the car. She slings her backback behind her.

Her dad flicks off the radio. "I've been in contact with a family friend upstate about this Alpha thing. Apparently they've been making the rounds lately."

Allison feels cold. "Hunting?" she asks.

Her dad shrugs. "Collecting," he says. "But there's been . . . a lot of collateral damage."

"Human or werewolf?"

"Both—but in case of humans, it's usually pack-adjacent."

Allison's fingers go suddenly numb. "So if they're here," she says softly, realizing, "they'll go after Stiles and Lydia."

Her Dad shoots her a look. "You're not thinking of—"

"Of course not," Allison says, but in her jacket pocket, she fingers her phone.

.x.

Derek lets himself into Stiles' room. The teenager is passed out on his bed, a piece of paper resting on his stomach. It's blank. It looks like it's been ripped out of a notebook.

He grabs Stiles' mother's book off the shelf and pens through it as Stiles sleeps, waiting. He can tell the difference between a nap and a committed Stiles sleep coma, and this is definitely not the latter.

There is a message left on his cell phone that he hasn't listen to yet. He'd been surprised to see Allison Argent's phone number in his missed calls, but whatever her news is, it can't be good. Derek is tired. He had an okay day. He doesn't want to ruin it.

He kicks his feet up on the bed. His phone vibrates.

It's Allison again.

_Derek. Call me._

He sighs. Stiles is still asleep. His eyelashes are dark on pale skin. He looks tired. He has a dark bruise on his arm.

Derek hesitates. Then, "fuck it," he mutters and presses his hand to Stiles' arm, letting his veins run dark as he drains the pain out of the mark.

"Wharmaglrdn?" Stiles mutters, blinking awake. "What are you?"

"Werewolf trick," Derek answers vaguely.

His phone vibrates.

_It's important._

"I'm sorry about skipping the meeting," Stiles says before Derek can scold him. "Ms. Morrell is terrifying. And anyway, Lydia and I did some crazy Vampire Slayer shit with her, so it's not like I didn't get any physical training. Though apparently I can't magically summon fire except via Lydia's assholery, so that's kind of bullshit."

Derek chuckles. "We'll schedule around it," he hears himself say. He's pretty sure he had meant to tell him not to skip again.

Then again, when had anything ever gone to plan when it came to Stiles?

His phone.

_Please._

"I have to go," he says.

Stiles frowns. "Why? I am your entire social life."

Derek flicks him off. "Fuck you," he says without venom.

"I've tried," Stiles returned with a cheeky grin. "You won't."

Derek runs his hands over his face. He wants to laugh, and he wants to punch Stiles in the throat. Never say that Derek Hale doesn't do mixed emotions.

"I'll see you later, Stiles," he says firmly.

Stiles kicks out a foot, and Derek catches it by reflex. He frowns when Stiles breaks into a beaming smile before realizing that he's touching the bare skin of Stiles' ankle.

"It will never cease to crack me up what a secret softy you are," Stiles informs him. Derek drops the ankle. He rolls his eyes as he pushes the window open. "Hey," Stiles says suddenly, "wait."

He stands, moving over towards Derek at the window, and then presses a kiss to his mouth. "Just. I feel like we haven't. I don't know. Things are okay, right?"

Derek doesn't understand. "There's an Alpha pack circling and Gerard is the kanima," he reminds Stiles slowly. "'Okay' is kind of relative."

Stiles hits him in the arm. "That's not what I mean, asshole. I mean—you know. _Our_ thing is okay."

Derek takes Stiles' hands and presses them onto his own palms. He can almost feel the force of Stiles' smile. "Yeah," Derek says as his phone vibrates again. "Our thing is okay. Can I go now?"

Stiles grins. "Yeah," he grumbles. "Get out of here before my dad gets home and sees you exiting via window like a creeper."

Derek goes.

The text on his phone reads: _It's about Stiles._


End file.
